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Rnn k . fM 5 5 Sw. 


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I 


/il 5 - 



THE 

WORLDLINGS 





A 


BOOKS BY THE SAME 
AUTHOR. 

THE ACTOR-MANAGER, 
CYNTHIA — A DAUGHTER 
OF THE PHILISTINES ; 
VIOLET MOSES, 

THE MAN WHO WAS GOOD, 
ONE MAN’S VIEW, 

THIS STAGE OF FOOLS. 


THE 

WORLDLINGS 


LEONARD MERRICK 


NEW YORK 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
1900 




51953 

Library of Conyreas 

Two Copies Received 
SEP 26 1900 

__ Copyright entry 

S, /^v a 

JL 

FIRST COPY. 

2nd Copy Delivered to 

_ ORDER DIVISION 

OCT 19 IS00 



Copyright, 1900, by 
Doubleday, Page & Co. 




THE WORLDLINGS 


CHAPTER I. 

The thermometer registered ioo° in the shade, 
and where he stood there was no shade; on the 
depositing floors no relief from the intense, dry 
heat was possible for even a moment. He was paid 
to watch twelve Kaffirs and Zulus, who broke the 
lumps of diamondiferous soil into smaller pieces, 
and were adroit in concealing the gems ; their skins 
glistened now, and they swung their picks torpidly. 
He was paid to watch them from “sun up” until 
“sun down,” and God knows there was little else 
for him to view. No tree, no shrub rose here; 
there was nothing but the arid earth and the blue 
flare of sky. In his eyes was the dazzle of the grey 
ground which stretched before him like a level 
beach, and reflected the blaze of the sun; in his 
ears was the long-drawn whir of the tubs as they 
traveled the wire runners to the mine; in his heart 
was despair. 

For six months he had lived this loathsome life 
— he was remembering it. During six months he 

5 




THE WORLDLINGS. 


had filled a fool’s berth because energy and brains 
and education were able to find no better opening. 
In ’82, the time when men without capital or credit 
could arrive on the Diamond Fields and expect to 
make money honestly, had already passed. He 
would soon be forty, and since he was seventeen 
the man had done his best. He had done the best 
that in him lay! he could maintain that. He had 
never neglected an opportunity, he had never com- 
mitted a dishonourable action, he had never shirked 
hard work — but he was a failure. To go to Kim- 
berley had been his purpose for years, while he 
buffeted ill-luck in America; but it had been years 
before he could save the means to do so. In the 
States, as in Australia, his struggle towards fortune 
had ended in a cul-de-sac; Kimberley was still 
called the New Rush, and the thought of it had sus- 
tained his courage. He had hoarded and scraped, 
and fulfilled his purpose at last. And he had come 
for this! 

He had pictured himself a digger, labouring with 
his own hands on his own claim, sweating, but 
hopeful. He found the mines apportioned among 
companies — in which men like himself could secure 
no closer interest than they could obtain in a coal- 
pit at home. He found that to the majority Kim- 
berley was less like a mining camp than a share 
market — which concerned him as little as the Stock 


6 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


Exchange in New York, when he had trodden the 
Wall Street sidewalk. He found that he had added 
another unit to the hundreds of Englishmen seek- 
ing a living wage, and had finally welcomed a 
situation that held no prospect of improvement. 

And he would soon be forty — the better half of 
his life had gone! He recalled the period when 
forty had been so far ahead that to foresee himself 
a rich man by then had seemed a moderate expec- 
tation. Recalled it? It was only the other day! 
He had been twenty-five, with an eternity at his 
disposal; thirty, with a shock; thirty-five, and fight- 
ing against time. The flash of three sign-posts, 
and his youth was dead! Each succeeding year 
had been a clod on its coffin. 

“Macho !” he said to the blacks. It meant 
“Make haste;” it was nearly all the native vocabu- 
lary that he required. 

He was asking himself “How long?” What un- 
imaginable turn of the wheel would liberate him? 
Money was not made by working for other people 
unless one worked in a prominent position. The 
manager of the company had a thousand a year, 
though he could scarcely be thirty, and it was well 
known had never set eyes on a washing-machine, 
or a rough stone, until a few months before he 
strolled into the post. He wore a blue-and-white 
puggaree round his wide-awake, and a cummer- 


7 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


bund in lieu of a belt, and flicked *his new Bedford 
cords with an unnecessary hunting crop; and he 
looked at the hauling-engine as if he feared it was 
going to explode. Yet he had a thousand a year; 
and he would buy scrip, and prosper, and go to 
England by-and-by to live in ease. But that had 
been influence — his brother had been manager be- 
fore him, and had initiated him into the duties. 
The dealers who sat in their shirt-sleeves, sorting 
diamonds on white paper in the windows of their 
iron offices, would retire, and go to England by- 
and-by; but to be a dealer required capital and 
knowledge of the trade. The brokers who bustled 
in and out of the offices, netting commissions on 
their sales, might nurse hopes of England and dis- 
tant independence; but to be a broker required a 
license and a heavy guarantee. 

England! In two-and-twenty years his only 
glimpse of it had been in the few days passed in 
London the previous spring, after he had landed 
from America preparatively to sailing for the Cape. 
The longing for it thrilled him. As he watched 
the Kaffirs, and sweltered in the sun, he fancied 
what it would be like to be on the river in flannels 
lazying under the boughs; to be driving in a han- 
som among the lights of the West End; to taste 
the life of the kid-gloved men he had envied on 
those April evenings from the pavement, as the 


8 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

cabs sped by him bearing them to the restaurants, 
to the theatres, to women's arms. 

“Macho!" he repeated perfunctorily. Then 
noticing that some of the gang seemed half asleep: 
“Hi!" he cried, “what are you doing? That isn’t 
work, it’s rest!’’ 

At his tone their movements quickened, though 
his words were unintelligible to them, but after a 
few prods with their picks they grew comatose 
again. One of the squad, who called himself “Me 
Tom,’’ had been a kitchen boy, and could speak 
English. 

“Tell them," said Maurice Blake to him, “that if 
they’re lazy they won’t get full pay on Saturday; 
do you hear?" 

Me Tom nodded, and translated the warning; 
and the offenders answered all together at great 
length. 

“What do they say?" asked the overseer. 

“They say," replied the native, “that the baas is 
a just baas; what he says is sense. They say they 
thank him that he not use the sjambok to them, or 
be cruel with his feet, or throw stones. He is a 
very good baas." 

“Stop that rot,” said Blake; “I don’t want to 
hear any lies!" 

The negro raised an arm solemnly, with the 
first and second fingers extended, and said: 


9 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“Kors!” which signified “So help me God!” He 
continued: “They say it is not because they lazy 
that they not work, baas; but because on Saturday 
they start away, with their savings, and their 
blankets, and their guns, as the baas must have 
often seen others start. They say they go back to 
their own country, and they buy wives; and they 
will have daughters, and much cattle — and they so 
sick with happiness that they cannot work, baas. 
Kors!” 

“I understand,” said Blake, slowly; he under- 
stood very well. “Tell them they must do their 
best.” 

So he was popular with the Kaffirs; he had not 
guessed it, nor thought about the matter. 

“Ask them,” he said now, “what they call me.” 

No white man on the floors was known to the 
niggers by his name — it was sufficient that an over- 
seer should be a “baas,” and a manager a “big 
baas.” But among the blacks themselves their 
masters were always referred to by nicknames, and 
though, if these transpired, they seldom sounded 
very apt to European ears, proof was often af- 
forded that to the native mind they were extraor- 
dinarily descriptive. When a party of Kaffirs 
tramped homeward, after the fields had served 
their purpose, they met on the road other parties, 
bound in their turn for the mines; and then they 


io 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

who returned narrated to their compatriots “the 
dangers they had passed,” and uttered counsel, 
cautioning them against the manager who had 
flogged their brother to death, and commending 
the overseer under whom they had been able to 
steal “klips.” And so serviceable were the nick- 
names that, when the newcomers arrived, they 
identified the owners at sight, and recognized the 
baas who was desirable and the baas who should 
be shunned. 

“Well, don’t be afraid,” exclaimed Blake, seeing 
that the interpreter looked bashful; “I want to 
know.” 

“They say,” said Me Tom, as if disclaiming all 
agreement with the sobriquet himself, “that they 
call the baas ‘The baas with the square shoulders / ' 
who is hungry in the eyes.” 

“Thanks,” said Blake. “Now you can get on; 
and put your back into it!” 

The burning glare of the day was gradually 
abating, the sun streamed across the sorting-shed 
now, turning the corrugated iron of the roof to 
fire. A breeze arose, hot as the breath of an 
oven, catching the dried tailings and blowing 
them across the floors in clouds that grew mo- 
mentarily denser. As it increased in force, the 
grit was volleyed in blinding gusts, hissing as it 
swept near, and stinging the neck and hands. The 


ii 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


atmosphere was darkened as if by fog; the doors 
of adjacent sheds slammed violently; and the 
neighing of the horses could be distinctly heard. 
But after half-an-hour the dust-storm passed. 

Slowly, slowly, the sun dropped lower behind 
the sorting-shed; the grey of the diamondiferous 
ground lost its tinge of blue; and the screams of 
the engines announced that the day was done. 
Blake picked up his jacket, and trudged down the 
barren road that wound to Market Square and 
what served him for a home. His berth was in 
Bultfontein, and diggers and blacks still poured 
from the neighboring mine of Du Toit’s Pan when 
he reached it. As he passed the veranda of the 
one-storied irorw club he could hear the popping 
of corks and the voices of men luckier than he in 
some approach to comfort; outside the canteens 
and the tin shanties made of the lining of packing 
cases, the guttural cries of the niggers filled the 
air. Natives stood in groups everywhere, some 
with their blankets on, others still as they had left 
the works, shouting and gesticulating excitedly. 
An ox wagon lumbered through the deep dust of 
Main Street; on the stoep of the Carnarvon Hotel 
the proprietor and one of the visitors were fight- 
ing. After he had drunk a limejuice-and-soda 
Blake walked along Du Toit’s Pan Road till he 
came to his bedroom door; he unlocked it, and 


12 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


crossed the mud floor wearily. The heat had melted 
the candle till it drooped from the candlestick in 
a half-hoop, and stuck to the washhand stand; 
when he had straightened it, he washed. The 
washhand stand and a truckle bed furnished the 
room between the corrugated iron walls, so he lay 
on the bed and listened to the buzz of a hundred 
flies, until the clashing of a handbell summoned 
him to dinner. 

The boarders belonged to the lower ranks; most 
of them had overseers’ places like his own. A 
woman was rarely seen at a Diamond Fields hotel, 
but temporarily there were two women here. They 
were the wife and daughter of a Cockney who had 
kept a Kaffir store which had recently been de- 
stroyed by fire. The charge of arson had not been 
proved, and the family were returning to South- 
wark with the insurance money. The finger nails 
of the assembly testified to a laborious week, and 
Maurice, who knew none of them, hated them with 
an unreasoning rage. . He ate with his eyes fixed 
upon his plate, about which the flies swarmed 
furiously; but he could not stop his ears, and, 
stimulated by the unaccustomed society of white 
women, the men grew humorous as the beer van- 
ished; it was for their “humour” that he cursed 
them. Habitude had steeled him to their adjec- 


13 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


tives, but under the sallies and the giggles of the 
third class his nerves were taut. 

He finished his meal as hurriedly as usual, and 
caught up his hat. The moon had risen now, and 
the mounds of debris, which were all that relieved 
the flatness of the dreary view, gleamed like snow. 
He hailed a “cart,” for he felt too tired to walk into 
Kimberley this evening, and he must inquire how 
Jardine was. For the first time it occurred to him 
to wonder what he had done with his evenings be- 
fore these visits to the house in Lennox Street 
became his habit. What had begun it? There had 
been a melee in Carme’s saloon one night, when 
the threat of wrecking the Kama Company’s ma- 
chinery was in the air, but he didn’t quite remem- 
ber how Jardine and he had come to leave the bar 
together. However, the row had been his intro- 
duction to the only educated man he knew, or had 
a chance of knowing. 

Again Kimberley looked large and cheerful to 
him by comparison with the Pan as the cart rattled 
into the electric light, but the air of cheerfulness 
was only momentary, and after the principal thor- 
oughfare the streets were empty and dark. 

Maurice stopped the Hottentot driver at a 
wooden cottage with a stoep,' and rapped at the 
door. A voice called to him to go in, and when he 
obeyed he stood in the parlour. 


14 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


The construction was simple. The cottage con- 
sisted of one story, and was spacious enough to 
have formed a good-sized room. Two partitions, 
roughly covered with chintz, divided it into three, 
which served for sitting-room, bedroom and 
kitchen. At the back was a small compound, where 
the washing hung, enclosed by a corrugated iron 
fence. 

A woman in a rocking chair had been reading 
by a paraffin lamp, and as he entered, she put out 
her hand. 

“How is he?” asked Maurice. 

“He is bad,” she said. “He's asleep now; don’t 
walk about — the more he can sleep the better; 
come and sit down. I dare say he’ll wake before 
you go — I shall hear him if he moves.” 

“What does the doctor say?” 

“If he pulls through, the doctor advises a trip 
to the Colony; it’s easy to give advice, isn’t it! 
If we can’t manage that, ‘Alexanderfontein might 
pick him up.’” 

“They always advise men to leave the Fields 
after a bad attack of the fever,” he said. “I know. 
I had a touch of it myself soon after I got here.” 

He took a seat by the table, and for a few mo- 
ments neither said any more. The woman was 
staring at nothing, her brows meeting in a frown, 
and her passionate mouth compressed. The wrap- 
15 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


per she wore was discolored, and her carelessly 
coiled hair had come half unpinned; yet she was 
far from looking a mere handsome slut, who had 
sunk to her surroundings, or a woman who was 
used to them. She had lived, perhaps, five and 
thirty years; and dressed as nature had designed 
her to dress — as once, probably, she had dressed — 
she would have been magnificent. 

“A month at Alexanderfontein wouldn’t cost 
a great deal,” said Maurice, at last; “can’t it be 
worked, Mrs. Jardine?” 

“Do you know how broke we are?” she returned, 
impatiently. “Have you any idea?” 

He shook his head. “I know things aren’t gay 
— Jardine never went into details.” 

“We have about nine pounds to-night; that’s our 
capital! There’s no reason why I should make a 
secret of it. Oh, don’t look concerned — we shall 
rub along! But it will hardly run to a month’s 
hotel bill, eh?” 

“No, it won’t run to a month’s hotel bill,” he 
said. “I didn’t understand things were so bad as 
that. Well, I can manage to lend him a fiver, you 
know — I can lend it to him now; you’d better take 
it for him, will you?” 

“You’re down on your own luck,” she replied; 
“and I didn’t tell you for that. Besides, there’s — 
there’s just a chance of something big happening. 

16 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


No, we won’t borrow from you before we’re 
obliged to; you shall lend us a few pounds later on, 
if there’s no other way. Now, you’ll have a drink. 
Yes, you will!” she said, decisively. “We aren’t 
so hard up that we haven’t a bottle of whisky in the 
house — we never are! Perhaps it would have been 
a good thing for Phil if we had been sometimes! 
The girl brought in that jug of water just now — 
it’s quite cool.” 

“Shall I mix you some?” asked Maurice, fetch- 
ing the bottle and two tumblers. 

“Thanks. You know you can smoke? If you 
sit by the window he can’t smell it in the bedroom. 
It’s a lively state of things, isn’t it? This is the 
result of turning over a new leaf. While he 
knocked about in cities Phil was right enough; he 
always fell on his feet* somehow; but he really 
meant to put his shoulder to the wheel when we 
came to this heaven-forsaken country — he thought 
he was going to make money with an ostrich farm. 
An ostrich farm!” Her gesture told everything. 
“I shall hate the sight of an ostrich feather to the 
day I die. Then he came up here — when he had 
lost all the dollars that would have given him a 
show! What fools men are!” 

“A man is always called a fool if he has bad 
luck,” he said; “and it’s the one sort of 'folly’ that 
the world doesn’t make excuses for. Tut money 

17 


"X 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


in thy purse’ — and keep it there, for nobody will 
give you anything when it has gone. Here endeth 
the first lesson, and the last.” 

“That’s your philosophy?” she said. 

“That’s my philosophy, or part of it; there’s 
more that I’ve acquired too late. Succeed! It’s the 
only duty imposed on a man. Never mind how — 
succeed! It’s a desirable world while it turns the 
sunny side to you, but a clean record won’t pawn 
for much when you’re on your uppers.” 

“Have you ever had a good time?” inquired the 
woman, curiously. “Have you always had to 
rough it, or did you come a cropper once?” 

“I never came a cropper in the sense you mean,” 
he said. “My father had made his money in busi- 
ness, and retired before I was born, and most of 
his fortune was dropped on the Stock Exchange in 
England when he was sixty. He had brothers-in- 
law who wrote urging him to join them in mining 
operations with the few thousands that remained. 
The young men were flat broke at the time and 
pretty desperate; the figures they sent were very 
clever. He arranged to leave my sister behind with 
their mother — I was still at school — and we let him 
sail. I think the only advice we gave him was not 
to ‘suspect’ his partners — I thought I was very 
clever, little ass! — we warned him that he had a 
‘suspicious nature.’ After they had robbed him 


18 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


and the climate and the hardships had broken his 
health, he escaped to the coast, and my sister went 
out to him. He began to get stronger; he was 
happy there — pathetically happy, when one re 
members that he was grudged even that! His 
remittances for her keep were missed in London 

they had been very generous — and the old 
woman on one side and her sons on the other 
wrote upbraiding him for his weakness in ‘hanging 
back/ ‘Hanging back’ was the term used. They 
Were very scornful about his ‘hanging back.’ He 
was told that it was very cowardly to want to live 
in comfort with his child! They got my sister 
sent home, and hounded him to the mines again.” 

“How old were you?” 

“I was sixteen. When he had very little more to 
lose, his brothers-in-law told him he had better go 
back to England, and stay with their mother him- 
self. He stayed with their mother, and was in- 
sulted and overcharged, until she had had his last 
pound and everything of value from his trunks. 
Then she turned him out. My sister had been 
brought up to look forward to a life of leisure and 
refinement, but she went to work — so did I; and we 
did the best we could for him; between us we con- 
trived to find fifteen shillings every week for ‘par- 
tial board in a musical family in Dalston/ When 
I was eighteen I went abroad. My father was one 


19 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


of the best men that ever lived; he had given away 
large sums, and helped many people; and there 
wasn’t a day during his last five years on which he 
had enough to eat. The wretch who turned him 
out, and who had sponged on him from the hour 
he married, was the worst woman I have known — 
she had every vice except unchastity — and she 
stood high in her own esteem, and devoured deli- 
cacies to the end. I think that was when I began 
to see that the only moral contained by life is 
'Never be poor/ ” 

"And your sister? Where is she now?” 

"My sister got a situation in a draper’s shop, 
and died in it before she was twenty-three.” 

He took his pipe from his pocket, and filled it 
moodily; and the woman lit a cigarette over the 
lamp. After a whiff, she said: 

"I don’t think I ever met a man who spoke well 
of his father before. Phil hasn’t much reason to 
care a great deal about his!” 

"I didn’t know his father was alive,” he said, 
striking a match as far as possible from his nostrils. 

"No, he doesn’t talk about him to anyone.” She 
hesitated a second in a struggle with an impulse, 
and then, succumbing to it, added quickly: "Look 
here, I’ll tell you something, though I didn’t mean 
to yet! Phil’s father is a very rich man.” 


20 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“Why doesn’t he send you some money, then?” 
said Maurice. 

“Perhaps he will— that’s what I meant when I 
said there was a chance of something big happen- 
ing to us! But Phil left home when he was nine- 
teen; there was I don’t know . . . Phil was 

wild. It doesn’t much matter after twenty — how 
many? Phil is forty-two. Besides nobody heard 
anything about it; it was hushed up. Don’t you 
say anything about this to Phil !” 

“I never give away a confidence,” he said. 
“Well?” 

“Well, his passage was paid to Melbourne, and 
he could draw so much a month, on condition that 
he never went back to England — it was very little, 
for his father wasn’t well off in those days. After 
about eight years the payments stopped altogether; 
the old man had had losses or got tired of the 
game. Phil was dead sick of the country, and he’d 
had a fluke, so he went to the States. I met him in 
San Francisco. Well, a few months ago, the old 
man, who’s nearly eighty, came into a baronetcy. 
Phil’s father is Sir Noel Jardine now, with about 
twenty thousand a year.” 

“Good Lord,” said Maurice. “Is the property 
entailed?” 

“Yes, sir! And, anyhow, Phil was the only child 
he had, and there’s nobody else to succeed. I was 


21 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


bound to tell you, I couldn’t keep it in any longer! 
I’m waiting for the answer to a cable we sent last 
month; and if it comes — Scot! if it comes, we shall 
go to London, and I shall wear proper frocks and 
hats again, and lace, and furs, and diamonds, and 

drive in the Park, and ” She had risen at the 

thought, her dark eyes shining with excitement, 
and she paused with a mortified laugh: “I look 
like lace and diamonds to-night, don’t I?” she said, 
bitterly. “Where’s my drink? Have another, and 
wish us luck.” 

“What’s the principal doubt?” he said. “Why 
shouldn’t an answer come? Isn’t your husband in 
correspondence with his father?” 

“It was stipulated that there should be no cor- 
respondence when Phil was shipped off. He wrote 
once, about five years ago, just after we came out 
here; but he didn’t get any answer, and he has 
never written since.” 

“But you say the old man hadn’t come into the 
property five years ago; the property will make a 
difference.” 

“Yes, that’s why we hope; he mayn’t be so vin- 
dictive now. And our cable would have thawed 
stone! I say ‘ours,’ but of course Sir Noel doesn’t 
know anything about me. We couldn’t have many 
words because of the expense, but they were such 


22 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


touching words; Phil did laugh! Do you think it 
looks bad that we haven’t heard yet?” 

“Has there been time for a reply?” 

“Not by letter, no — that’s only due by this mail — 
but he could have cabled; he could have cabled the 
money, and we should have been on the sea by now, 
and Phil wouldn’t have caught camp fever! But 
then he’s mean — Phil says he was always mean — a 
draft would be so much cheaper; Phil didn’t expect 
a cable. Listen — he’s awake! Wait a moment, I’ll 
see if you can go in.” 

She hurried into the bedroom, and through the 
open door Maurice could hear her say: “Well, you 
have been asleep! Let me turn the pillow for you.” 

The other tones were indistinct. 

So Jardine was the son of a baronet — the intel- 
ligence had been rather startling — and, supplying 
the dots and crosses, he had done something dis- 
honest in the past? Well, so many men had! and 
the remembrance didn’t seem to haunt them much. 
“Remorse” was what the well-meaning attributed 
to the unscrupulous to console you for their suc- 
cess; an invention of the optimists to restore the 
balance ! And it had happened years ago, and no- 
body had known. If he recovered, Jardine would 
doubtless go home now, and lounge in the club 
windows and admire the prospect of twenty thou- 


23 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


sand a year. What a life was awaiting him; how 
incredible a change! 

The sick man's thoughts were evidently flowing 
in the same channel, and on a sudden his voice 
reached the parlour thinly: 

“Cable to the governor,” he was saying; “cable 
to the governor! Nearly eighty, and lived them all 
out! Twenty thousand a year — what a splash! 
My God! Can’t take it with him! Rosa! 
Where’s Rosa? Why don’t you send the cable?” 

“Yes, old boy, I’m here. The cable has gone; 
it’s all right.” 

Then for a few seconds there was a low mutter- 
ing, which sank to silence. 

After some minutes had passed the woman re- 
appeared in the doorway, with her finger to her 
lip, and Maurice rose cautiously to meet her 
whisper: 

“He’s going off again. He was delirious — I 
think I’d better stop there.” 

“Good night, then,” he murmured. “I’ll come 
in to-morrow.” 

She nodded. “Yes, come to-morrow. Good 
night.” She let him out as noiselessly as could 
be, and he stole across the stoep on tiptoe into the 
street. 


24 


CHAPTER II. 


At sunset the following evening rain commenced 
to fall, and it fell in floods. Kimberley was inac- 
cessible; the horses of the Cape carts, making for 
shelter, were swept off their feet, and a boiler out- 
side Tarry’s was washed down the sluit. Forty- 
eight hours had passed since his last visit, when 
Maurice reached the cottage in Lennox Street 
again; and the coloured girl, who chopped the wood 
and did the cooking, was leaving for home. 

“Oh, Mr. Blake, sir, it’s all over — he’s gone!” she 
faltered, stopping. 

Partially prepared though he had been to hear 
it, there was still the shock. He whitened a little, 
and strove to disguise that he was moved. 

“Where’s your missis,” he said; “can I see her?” 

“She’s inside,” answered the girl; and Maurice 
pushed past her, and entered. 

The lamp had not been lighted, and for the first 
instant he thought the parlour was empty; then he 
went forward with his hand outstretched. 

“What can I say?” he said. “You understand, 
don’t you?” 


25 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


The woman lifted her face from the sofa where 
she was lying, and he could see, even in the shadow, 
that she was disfigured with weeping. 

“He died yesterday afternoon,” she said unstead- 
ily. “How did you hear?” 

“The servant just told me. I — I’m so sorry. . . 
If I’m not too late, you must let me do what has to 
be done,” he continued after a pause; “you haven’t 
anybody to turn to here.” 

“Not here nor anywhere else!” she said, raising 
herself slowly. “Light the lamp, will you? I can’t 
see where anything is.” 

He did as she wished, and sought awkwardly for 
some phrase of consolation. The despair in her 
manner perturbed him, for he had never credited 
her with the devotion that would explain it, and 
was doubtful whether he was asked to attribute it 
to the loss of her husband, or the loss of her ex- 
pectations. Her tone when she spoke next relieved 
him. 

“Look!” she said, pointing to an envelope on the 
mantelpiece. “The mail is in. I sent the girl to 
the post-office to-day, and his father had written! 
He sends a hundred pounds, and wants him back. 
Look!” 

She thrust the envelope into his hands, and he 
read the contents. The note that accompanied the 
draft — it could not be called a letter — was a little 


26 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


formal, he thought, even in the circumstances; a 
little stilted — the note of an old man; but it was not 
unkindly couched. The heading, Croft Court, 
Oakenhurst, Surrey, suggested vague splendours 
to his mind. 

“That’s rough,” he said, returning the papers. 
“And it came too late for your husband to know!” 

She made a movement of impatience. “Phil 
wouldn’t have known if the mail had come in yes- 
terday! He was unconscious for hours before he 
died. Rough? Why, yes, it’s pretty rough, isn’t 
it? If the money had been cabled, or if we had 

only cabled a month before we did Well, it’s 

no good talking about that — we cabled as soon as 
we happened to read the news; that’s not what I 
blame myself for!” 

“What then?” he said. “What can you blame 
yourself for, Mrs. Jardine?” 

She made no answer. She began to wander 
about the room, her handkerchief bitten between 
her teeth. 

“You won’t be penniless,” he said; “his father 
will do something for you. If he was ready to 
make it up with his son, he’ll hardly turn his back 
on the widow. He won’t let you starve, Mrs. Jar- 
dine.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t keep calling me that,” she 
burst out; “it’s not my name! Call me Mrs. Flem- 


\ 


27 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


in g — I’m Rosa Fleming, that’s what my name is! 
. . . Now do you see?” 

“Oh,” remarked Maurice, “yes, I see. That 
makes it rougher.” 

“Phil was going to marry me,” she went on ve- 
hemently; “if he’d lived, he’d have married me! I 
could have been his wife a year ago if I’d liked — 
two years ago — but I didn’t care; there was no 
reason for it — what did it matter then? Oh, if I 
could have seen ahead! What a fool I was! What 
a fool, what a fool! And now, I tell you, he’d have 
married me if he’d got well; and I should have been 
Lady Jardine soon. And he dies, he dies, just when 
he’s wanted, after I’ve stuck to him for years!” 
She stood still, and seemed to try and repress her 
excitement. “Have you got any courage?” she 
said. 

He looked an inquiry. 

“Have you got any courage?” she repeated; 
“I’ve something to propose to you. I don’t sup- 
pose for a moment that you’ll do it; but don’t cry 
out that it’s impossible when I tell you! I’ve been 
thinking of it all day, and it isn’t impossible; it’s as 
easy as falling off a log. Will you go back to Eng- 
land in Phil’s place?” 

“Will I — ?” He sat staring at her. “How?” 
But he saw how; the consciousness that it might be 
done was throbbing in him. 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


‘‘Who would have any suspicion?” she said 
eagerly. “You know how much alike you were! 
Do you think, after twenty-three years, an old man 
who is expecting him — who is expecting him, mind 
you — is going to tell the difference?” 

“The old man isn’t everyone,” he murmured; 
“there’d be some relation, with hopes, who wouldn’t 
be satisfied so easily. Besides, I’ve always run 
straight. Leaving the risk aside, I — I’ve always 
run straight.” 

“Haven’t I told you that there isn’t any relation 
to succeed him? Oh, if you won’t do it, say so at 
once, and for heaven’s sake don’t argue. I know! 
I know that the father is the only relative Phil had 
alive — I know it for a fact! There is no earthly 
reason why you should be doubted; I don’t think 
that either of you ever realized how great the like- 
ness was. Did I show you that article on ‘People 
with Doubles?’ — they were celebrated people, with 
the names of the ‘doubles’ under their pictures — 
there wasn’t a case of stronger resemblance than 
yours to Phil — not one! He was stouter than 
you, his nose widened more, there was some grey 
in his beard; but the shape of your foreheads, of 
your faces, the colour of your eyes, and the way 
they were set, all the points that matter were 
the same. If you had trimmed your beards and 
done your hair in the same way, I believe you could 


29 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


have passed for one another anywhere. If the old 
man saw no likeness in you to the boy he remem- 
bers at nineteen, he would have doubted Phil him- 
self.” 

He did not speak; he sat smoking furiously. 

“I can tell you everything,” she said, pacing the 
room again. “I know all his life. If I had never 
heard it before, I should have heard it all a hun- 
dred times over in the last month! After we read 
of the succession he talked of nothing else. Hour 
after hour he has sat where you are sitting now, 
and maundered about his boyhood. I can tell you 
about his cousin Guy who was drowned, and his 
cousin Minnie that he was in love with, and that 
Minnie married a civil engineer, and went to 
Canada, and died in Montreal. I can tell you about 
the row with his father when he was expelled from 
school, and another row when he ran away from 
home, and pawned the watch that his father had 
left at a jeweler’s to be cleaned; and that his father 
engaged a tutor for him, and dismissed the tutor — 
who was called Benson — because he found out that 
Benson and Phil used to go on the spree together. 

I Goodness! what couldn’t I tell you!” 

“Could you tell me what he did,” said the man, 
“that his father washed his hands of him?” 

“No,” she admitted, “that I don’t know quite; 
he was never explicit about that.” 


30 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“So it must have been bad. I should be taking 
a name that has been disgraced.” 

“But it was kept quiet,” she put in quickly. “I do 
know that. It was between his father and him. Not 
a soul heard — I can swear it!” 

“You mean he swore it. But he may have ” 

He remembered suddenly that Jardine lay in the 
next room dead, and checked himself. “It mayn’t 
have been true,” he added. 

“Why should he have deceived me about it? There 
was no motive; it made no difference to me one way 
or the other. No; if his father hadn’t hushed the 
thing up, I think Phil would have been rather glad 
to say so; he was always pleased to say as much 
against his father as he could.” 

He knocked the ashes from his pipe and refilled it; 
and she watched him till the tobacco was fairly 
aglow. 

“Anyhow,” he demurred again, “his father knew! 

I should be in the dark about the principal event.” 

“Is it likely that Phil would have referred to it 
himself if he’d gone back? If anybody raked it up, 
it would be Sir Noel. It wouldn’t be difficult to make 
appropriate answers.” 

“You say there were no relations,” he said medita- 
tively. “But there are other people. There must 
be lawyers, friends, servants — half a hundred people 
who knew him before he went abroad.” 


3i 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“Before he was nineteen! And there would be 
very few. Remember that his father wasn’t Sir Noel 
then; he lived in a house in Adelaide Road — if 
you know where that is — and never dreamt of any- 
thing better. And Phil was away at school most of 
the time, too. Even if any old friends visit the baro- 
net, there can hardly be one that it would need 
much nerve to face. Oh!” she exclaimed, “how can 
you hesitate? Think what it is! Croft Court and 
everything to be yours — yours ! Do you grasp what 
it means? I tell you I can post you up in every 
detail — enough for a witness-box, far more than 
enough for what’s required. It’s so simple; there’s 
nothing to be done! You haven’t to turn anyone 
out, there’s nobody to fight your claim — it isn’t like 
the Tichborne case. Why, if it’s necessary, I can 
declare that I’ve known you as Philip Jardine for the 
last ten years!” 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said. “It 
wouldn’t be convincing, and you’d be wise to take 
your share of the loot and not show in the matter at 

all If anything went wrong then it 

would all fall on me, and you wouldn’t be indicted 
for conspiracy. What is it you suggest?” 

She flashed a glance of appreciation. “Do you 
mean what share? Give me a quarter, and a chance 
to make as good a match as Phil would have been! 
That’s all I want. A quarter of everything as long 


3 2 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


as I live, and to be introduced into society.” Her 
tongue dwelt lovingly on the word. “Is it fair?” 

“Yes, I should think it would be quite fair,” he 
said, “if I committed the fraud. Well, I’ll think 
about it. You don’t expect me to say more than that 
to-night?” 

She had not originally expected that he would say 
so much, nor had he; he trembled as he realized the 
enormity of his defection. Yet the sensation was 
exhilarating rather than unpleasant. He perceived 
with a vague self-wonder that the reluctance he felt 
was due less to the horror of dishonesty, which he 
had always believed unconquerable, than to a senti- 
mental aversion from profiting by the other man’s 
loss. He was also aware that he was combatting the 
reluctance. Then the recollection pierced him that 
he had offered to arrange for the burial, and in the 
moment that the thought came all desire to embrace 
her suggestion fell from him. He was thrilled by 
the hideousness of the course he had contemplated, 
and tried to believe that he had been guilty of noth- 
ing but a temporary aberration. With great diffi- 
culty he forced himself to approach the subject of the 
interment, and his relief was intense when he heard 
that nothing remained for him to do. 

“Would you care to see him before you go?” in- 
quired the woman in a low voice. 

He did not know how she could ask him such a 


33 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


question; he shook his head and shuddered. It 
seemed to her rather brutal of him; but men were 
like that! For herself, the bitterness which had had 
its birth in her despair had faded as the despair de- 
creased, and she could think of Jardine’s faults with 
pity. 

Maurice took leave of her, and went back to 
Clacy’s Hotel and pondered. Before he slept the day 
was breaking, and when he made his way to Bult- 
fontein he felt but half awake. The conversation of 
the preceding evening seemed to have occurred a 
long while ago, and in the raw light the proposal no 
longer dazzled him nor looked feasible. It was only 
as the hours wore by that the spell reasserted itself in 
part. He was not considering acquiescence now, 
but the thought that he might acquiesce if he would 
lifted some of the despondence from his heart. As 
he stood watching the rising and falling of the nig- 
gers’ picks in the burning glare of the sun a touch 
of buoyancy was communicated to his mood by the 
knowledge that the chance was there. It was there! 
Release was possible if he chose to accept it. It was 
in his own power to be done with all this to-morrow, 
to-day! He might turn from this grey waste of 
ground, if he would, and never look on it again. He 
could go to England, to prosperity, to a life of pleas- 
ure, at the risk of Yes, at the risk of penal ser- 

vitude! But the probability of detection was not 


34 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


very great, he opined. He knew that it was not 
the fear of exposure that was deterring him, but 
the fear of his own conscience. He would be a 
swindler, a rogue. No! he was beside himself to 
consider the prospect. 

Yet he could go if he would! And there was no 
heir to the property. He would not be wronging 
anyone — only the Crown, something impersonal, an 
abstraction! If he failed, he would pay the penalty of 
his act; and if he succeeded, the suffering, should 
there be any, would be his, too. What duty was 
owed to anyone but himself in the matter? Did he 
owe anything to the “Community” — the Community 
that meant a multitude of self-centered individuals 
amongst whom he had starved — the Community 
that was as a wall of indifference against which he 
had beaten his hands until they bled? He might 
have grasped ease and risen beyond the reach of this 
temptation if the guiding principles of the Commu- 
nity had been his own — if he had walked through 
muddy waters, and climbed dirty ladders, and sacri- 
ficed his scruples to expedience! 

But “no,” and again “no”! The day dragged on, 
and the sun sank behind the sorting-shed; and he 
tramped along the dusty road once more, still telling 
himself that he would not do it. He told himself so 
as he ate his dinner amid the badinage of the over- 
seers and the cockney’s wife and daughter; and he 


35 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


said it while the riot of their laughter reached him 
after he had sought peace in his room. He would 

not do it; and yet His yearning shook him, 

and he caught his breath. 

He remembered that Mrs. Fleming was waiting 
for his answer; he would not go to her until he had 
decided! If he refused, his refusal must be steadfast, 
proof against persuasion — if he agreed, he would 
agree because it was his will. There should be no 
reproach attaching to her afterwards for having 
overruled him; he would do the thing of his own 
determination; doggedly — saying “yes” because he 
had meant to say “yes”; choosing his path, and 
taking it. 

She was waiting for him in suspense. Jardine had 
been buried that afternoon, and as she paced the 
parlour she was questioning if the name on the 
coffin had put an obstacle in the way of the scheme. 
The thought frightened her. But it was not an un- 
common name, and no one had known him! He 
would be one stranger more who had dropped out 
of the bars, that was all. Left, or dead; nobody 
would inquire, or remark his absence. Surely, it 
couldn’t matter. The fever of her inspiration had 
passed and she felt feeble; she felt that she wanted 
a man’s mind to lean on now, someone who would 
conduct the affair for her, and be authoritative and 
36 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


sanguine. She recalled men who would have shown 
their best qualities in such a situation. 

Would Blake consent? If he were afraid, what 
should she do with herself? She had been in equal 
straits more than once, and she looked back at them 
for encouragement, but the woman seemed some- 
body else ; she wondered how she had been so brave. 
She saw dimly the time when she had lived on fif- 
teen shillings a week in Islington, and worn a fash- 
ionable frock that did not belong to her in the race 
scene at a theatre. She had been seventeen then, 
and life was all before her. Though she was only 
one of the “extra girls,” Fleming had married her. 
Poor Harry! If he had lived, perhaps he would 

have been a big actor to-day, and she ? She had 

been so helpless, left without money in New York! 
What memories! The situation in the cigar store 
on Third avenue; her own flat in East Thirteenth 
street, where the first flats in New York had just 
been built. That was in ’67, and she was twenty 
years old. O beautiful time when she was twenty! 
If she had only known as much as she does now! 
. . . . Travel; at her wits’ end in Caracas — 

the result of a caprice! — California, Phil! What 
her life had held! Was it all to begin again? Here, 
in this desert at the world’s end? She was no longer 
so young; and then she had not been dashed from 
the summit of expectation. All of her past emotions 


37 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


that were vivid to her were those of the last month, 
the daily, hourly thought of wealth and position. In 
fancy she had lived in Mayfair, and bought frocks 
and jewels, and entered ballrooms holding her head 
high among the best women in England. She had 
foretasted their envy, and the admiration of the 
men. The scent of the flowers had been in her nos- 
trils, and she had seen the lights and heard her car- 
riage called. And now there was nothing, and she 
was left like Cinderella in her rags! 

It was ten o’clock when a Cape cart stopped out- 
side the cottage; and she ran to the door. Maurice 
sprang out, and came into the room quickly. His 
face was white, and his voice quivered a little. 

“I’ll do it!” he said. 

She gave a gasp of relief and began to cry; and 
he took her hands, and told her that they were 
going to succeed, and that she mustn’t break down 
now when it was settled. Then he made her drink 
some whisky, and swallowed some himself; and 
she uttered her misgiving. 

“You won’t have a stone on the grave,” he said. 
“You wouldn’t be able to pay for one in any case; 
and you needn’t publish an announcement of the 
death; there’s nothing in the rest! Where is the 
draft? I shall have to endorse that.” 

She drew it from her pocket, and he read it 
again : 


38 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

“ ‘At sight- — Philip Noel Jardine — one hundred 
pounds.’ I’ll bring you the money as soon as I 
get it.” 

“Will your writing do?” she asked anxiously. “I 
had forgotten your having to sign.” 

“The bank doesn’t know his signature, does it?” 
said Maurice. 

“Oh, no,” she exclaimed; “I’m losing my head!” 

“No. Well, if there’s any difficulty about hand- 
writing, it won’t be here — it will be afterwards, 
when we’re in England. But we depend on the 
likeness — that’s what we’re pinning our faith to. 
If there was as strong a likeness as we think, we 
needn’t worry much about anything else.” 

His composure had returned, and the coolness 
with which he found himself able to calculate prob- 
abilities, now that his resolution had been made, 
seemed strange to him. They talked till late. Jar- 
dine had taken the cottage, furnished for six 
months on his arrival, and the final payment was 
due; it was arranged that on the morrow Rosa 
should see the agent and satisfy his claim. But the 
cost of a passage to England was large, and the 
remittance had been designed for only one person, 
therefore ways and means were a serious consid- 
eration. They must not land without a few pounds 
in their pockets. After reaching London the man 
would proceed to Surrey, and the woman must 


39 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


have money to go into some little hotel in town 
while she awaited assistance from' him. On the 
steamer, and wherever it was possible, they would 
have to travel second-class. 

“And there are the last two visits of the doctor,” 
she said. “There are the doctor and the under- 
taker, besides the rent. And there’s the girl; 
there’s a pound due to her. Is it necessary to 
settle with everyone, do you think?” 

“I would, if I were you,” he said. “I’ve saved a 
tenner, and if we go at once I shall have something 
left out of this week’s wages. Oh, I should pay 
up!” He did not perceive the anomaly, but he 
was embarking on a gigantic fraud, and the idea 
of not “paying up” was repugnant to him. 

The next day was Saturday, and the wages 
would be forthcoming at two o’clock; but if he 
presented himself for his own, the bank would 
have closed before he could reach it. Even if he 
authorized another overseer to receive them for 
him, he wouldn’t be able to reach the bank soon 
enough unless he left the floors surreptitiously 
during the morning. He would not do that, so he 
did not cash the draft until Monday. 

It was his first keen pang — and the first time 
that he had been inside a bank for years. The 
clerk made the stereotyped inquiry, and he “took 
it” in ten-pound notes. Nobody noticed him when 


40 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

he passed out into Main street, and he was vaguely 
surprised that he didn’t look conspicuous. He had 
come out a thief. His life of struggle and his day 
and night’s resistance were now as nothing; the 
plunge had been made. 

He went with the money to Mrs. Fleming im- 
mediately, and in the afternoon she drove out to 
the agent’s. On the way back she stopped at a 
draper’s, and bought a yard of black ribbon to 
twist in the place of the red roses she was wearing 
in her hat. Some sign of mourning! In a white 
frock she would not feel heartless! Suddenly it 
struck her that if Maurice’s linen bore his initials, 
they must be altered; and on her return she cried 
to him that the oversight might have ruined all 
their plans. It was a disappointment to her to hear 
that the point had already occurred to him, but 
that the only marks his linen had borne for at least 
a decade were the hieroglyphics sewn upon it by 
the laundress. 

Maurice engaged two second-class berths in the 
names of Mrs. Fleming and Philip Jardine, and 
their preparations were conducted with haste. 
There was then a six days’ journey to be made by a 
ramshackle coach before the railway was reached, 
and three mornings later, while the dust blew down 
Stockdale street in clouds, he and she were among 
the twelve passengers who started for the Colony. 


4i 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


To both the man and woman that journey 
seemed eternal. The one engrossing thought of 
each could not be spoken, and there was little con- 
versation to divert them. Hour after hour they 
jolted through the barren plains in silence. Often 
the bones of a horse lay bleached by the roadside, 
picked by the vultures; sometimes a herd of spring- 
bok bounded from their approach in fear. Oppo- 
site Maurice an elderly Boer whittled biltong al- 
most incessantly, stuffing it into his mouth with 
filthy fingers; and, indeed, there were few oppor- 
tunities for any one to wash. The squalid houses 
were far apart, and the accommodation provided 
for the travelers was barely possible. Occasionally 
nothing remained to eat but what the inmates had 
just left upon the table — some stiffening stew, and 
sour brown bread, and rancid butter. Once when 
the mules had just been outspanned, and rolled on 
their backs in the sand, Maurice drew near to her; 
they were for the moment alone, and he was athirst 
to hear their project voiced. Temporarily, how- 
ever, her meditations *had taken another turn, and 
all she said was, “Do I look very dirty?” At night 
they tried to snatch a few hours’ sleep in the hovels 
— the women sometimes outside a bed, and the 
men below, stretched on their rugs upon the floor; 
but their rest was brief, and the shout of the driver 


42 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


wakened them to gulp scalding coffee, and jolt 
away, across the veldt again, through the dawn. 

At last Beaufort West and the luxury of a rail- 
way compartment was reached, and after a day 
and a night in the train, Maurice and she drove 
out of the Cape Town Station.. 

On the steamer, discussion of their scheme was 
practicable, and they rarely talked of anything else. 
She had not exaggerated when she declared that 
she could furnish him with a host of particulars of 
the career of the man whose character he was as- 
suming; and though most of them pertained to the 
period of her acquaintance with Jardine, and were 
not calculated to gratify his father, those that had 
reference to his boyhood were numerous too. 
Maurice felt that if he were accepted on his entry, 
he would be secure. 

He had made his choice, and when a qualm came 
— for qualms did come, though he would not let 
her know it — he repeated the fact. He had made 
his choice — and deliberately, in possession of all 
his senses; he had no excuse to humour his con- 
science now! Even if he were to break the com- 
pact, and refuse to proceed any further with the 
undertaking, he would still have stolen; he would 
not be honest again, he would only be a coward! 
He had never pitied the criminals who canted after 
they had committed the deed. He strove to put 


43 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


compunction from him as resolutely as he had 
striven to put away temptation; when you had 
taken a hand, you played it out; if you couldn’t 
afford the game, you shouldn’t have sat down! 
Nor save in moments did he regret the step. 

Far more frequent than moments of regret were 
those of passionate foretaste. The woman had 
seen herself Lady Jardine, but the man’s imagina- 
tion seldom extended an equal distance; it intoxi- 
cated him enough to picture himself in the position 
of the heir. Almost he was sorry that a title was 
in question. Money was all he wanted; if Sir Noel 
had been a stockbroker, and lived in a West Cen- 
tral square, the situation would have been easier 
to conceive. “Croft Court” rang rather alarm- 
ingly. What were such places like? His only idea 
of them had been gathered from the illustrated 
papers. He believed they lay behind gates bearing 
heraldic devices of deep significance. Good 
heavens, would he be expected to understand 
heraldry? 

Yet success would give him this Croft Court for 
his own one day, and twenty thousand a year! As 
the steamer throbbed on, and he watched the wide 
glitter of the sea, he tried to realize what it would 
mean. Ten would have conveyed as much to him; 
thirty would have dazzled him no more. Twenty 
thousand a year, less Rosa Fleming’s share! 


44 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


Drunk with excitement, and beholding in fancy the 
fulfilment of all that he had ached for, he was not 
spending half of such a rent-roll, and he knew it. 
He could not conjecture what he would do with 
wealth like that, what anybody could do with it; it 
looked limitless. He saw luxury, extravagance, 
wild months in the gayest of the capitals, costly 
presents to beautiful women — but fifteen thousand 
a year to squander as he pleased! To contemplate 
it dizzied him. 

The weeks lagged heavily, and his suspense grew 
almost intolerable. He was on fire to arrive, to 
put his effrontery to the test, to know that he had 
won, or lost. It appeared to him that the voyage 
had occupied months, and the monotonous pulsa- 
tions of the engines that he could not accelerate 
by a single beat became maddening to him. 

The last of the stoppages until Plymouth was 
reached occurred at Madeira, but the fares did not 
include free railway tickets, and to Rosa and him 
the passage would only end with the London 
docks. 

It was on a dull afternoon that they came in 
sight of them, and as the vessel floated alongside 
the quay, his throat tightened. She and he leant 
with the others over the taffrail; like him, she was 
very pale. The crowd about them were looking 
eagerly for expected faces, and from the group 


45 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

ashore a cheer came up; it seemed to her a good 
omen. 

“Em glad of that!” she said. “Have you got the 
wire?” 

He nodded; he was telegraphing to the baronet. 
He had written: “With you this evening. — Phil.” 

“We’re near the crisis now!” she murmured. 

“Yes,” he said. 

There were the final delays, and then the gang- 
way was made fast, and they stood in England, 
waiting for their luggage to be swung down. When 
they were free to depart, they rattled to a private 
hotel in Bloomsbury, which had been advertised in 
the ship’s copy of the “A. B. C.,” and here the 
woman elected to remain for the present. The 
next train for Oakenhurst was found to leave Wa- 
terloo at 5.15, and as he had plenty of time to spare, 
they ordered a meal for two in the dreary coffee- 
room, where they were the only visitors. 

The fire had burnt low, and the room was very 
chilly. A husky waiter brought them an over- 
cooked steak, and they sat at the table by the 
window, talking desultorily, while the dusk gath- 
ered in the street. When Maurice had promised 
repeatedly that at the earliest moment possible 
she should hear what happened, their pauses were 
very frequent; all that they could say yet had been 
said so often. 


46 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


Nevertheless, after a hansom had been stopped, 
and he had got inside, their eyes met as if both 
were conscious that it was only words were lack- 
ing. She had gone to the door with him, and then 
followed him to the curb. 

"‘You won’t forget to send a quarter of the 
money,” she whispered, “as soon as you get some? 
Remember, this won’t be enough for the week’s 
bill!” 

“A quarter of everything! Depend on me. Are 
you sure it satisfies you?” 

“Give me a quarter of all you get, and I’ll end a 
duchess!” she said. “Luck!” 

“Luck!” he said; and the cab sped away into the 
roar. 

He looked out at London, and realized that he 
was here. The figures in the streets could be dis- 
tinguished still, for the tradesmen had not lowered 
their shutters yet. It was London, with its shining 
shops, its moving multitude. The brutal black city 
was fair in his sight, even as Friday’s sister would 
have been fair to Crusoe. The best of it might be 
his at last! . . By audacity and deceit? Well — 

he set his teeth — they were the weapons of the 
world, and it had been the world against him! 


47 


CHAPTER III. 


Since the change of trains at six o’clock the 
journey had been painfully slow, and now he 
glanced at the name on the white board again to as- 
sure himself that he had actually arrived. Across 
the palings of the little gravelled station the view 
was dark and dispiriting, and after two laborers had 
crossed the line he and the youth who took his ticket 
had the platform to themselves. No conveyance 
was in waiting, the youth said firmly, but it was con- 
ceded, in colloquy with a companion who answered 
to “Hi, Jock!” that a trap might be obtained. 

Croft Court was about two miles distant, and 
Oakenhurst — or as much of it as the few widely 
divided lamps permitted Maurice to see from the 
trap — looked forlorn. The place seemed to him to 
consist entirely of long black roads, punctuated by 
the glimmer of saddened inns. 

It had often occurred to him that he might ad- 
dress the wrong man as “Father,” if any other were 
present, and he was considering the possibility of the 
blunder again when the lodge gates were reached. 
He reverted to the conviction that the baronet 


48 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


would desire to be alone at such a time, but in the 
drive through the long avenue his heart beat 
thickly. 

He had been unprepared for the size of the house, 
and the appearance of the dim quadrangle stag- 
gered him. The driver pulled up at an entrance 
that suggested a monastery, and when Maurice 
was admitted, before the bell ceased clanging, his 
glimpse of the interior startled him as much as 
the approach. 

An instant, however, sufficed to show him that 
it was a servant who had hastened to the door. 

“Where's Sir Noel?" he said. “Tell him I’m 
here — say ‘his son.’ ” 

He strode inside as he spoke; and then he saw 
in the great wainscoted hall, with its Gobelin tapes- 
tries — which were strange to him — and its antlers, 
and its helmets, and its breastplates, a frail old 
man in a frock-coat, who peered eagerly at his face. 

“Father!" cried Maurice; and the old man came 
forward with extended hand. 

“Philip," he said; “is it Philip? Well, well!" He 
stood gazing at him wonderingly. “Philip? I 
shouldn’t have known you. .. . . And yet — 

y-e-s, yes, I can — I can see! ... So Philip has 
come back!" His tone changed to one of quick im- 
patience. “Well, well, well, don’t let us stand here; 


49 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


come in the room! Where is Cope? Take Mr. 
Philip’s things, Cope— Mr. Philip’s things!” 

Maurice drew a deep breath and followed. The 
table was laid for dinner, and in the grate between 
two life-size marble figures, which his mythology 
didn’t enable him to identify, a fire was roaring. He 
warmed his hands before he spoke: 

"I’m glad to see you again,” he said. “You have 
changed, too; it’s a long time since I went away.” 

The old man nodded. 

“Twenty-three years,” he said. “A long time — 
yes, a long time! You wouldn’t have recognized 
me, I suppose?” 

“Oh, Lord, yes, I should have recognized you!” 
said Maurice. “And how are you? All right in 
your health?” 

“So, so,” said Sir Noel, adjusting his pince-nez 
and examining him; “I — I am not a young man, 
you know; but I am all right excepting for a bron- 
chial cough. Well, well, well, what do you stand 
for? Why don’t you sit down? You must be hun- 
gry, eh? Dinner will be ready directly. I expected 
you in time for dinner, but if you had said what train 
you had chosen I could have sent the carriage to 
meet you. Why didn’t you telegraph what train?” 

“I hadn’t seen the time-table when I wired; I 
wired you from the docks.” 

“So I saw, yes — that is another thing! Why the 


50 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


docks — why didn’t you land at Plymouth? I re- 
mitted a hundred pounds; surely a hundred pounds 
was enough ?” 

“It would have been enough if I hadn’t been in 
difficulties on the Fields. I was in a pretty tight 
corner there — you may have gathered that from my 
cable?” 

“It is astonishing!” said the old man musingly; 
“the difference in you, I mean. Your voice has 
grown so strong, and you are so big. You are no 
longer a boy, Philip — you are no longer a boy! 
What were you saying? Yes, yes — your cable! I 
was very glad to get your cable. I had already 
written to you, but my letter was returned by the 
Post Office.” 

“You had written to me? Where?” 

“To — to the farm, the ostrich farm; I couldn’t 
guess that you had left it! I was going to take steps 
to find you — I was about to advertise for you — when 
your cable came.” 

“I see,” said Maurice. “The farm turned out 
badly; it was a big mistake for me to try the busi- 
ness. I went into partnership with a man who pre- 
tended to know all about it, but I don’t think he 
knew much more than I did at the start; he bought 
his experience with my money. Then I went up to 
the Fields. I didn’t write to you when I gave the 
farm up because I didn’t think you wanted any cor- 


5i 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

respondence — you didn’t answer the first letter, you 
know.” 

“Oh, yes,” said Sir Noel, “you are quite wrong. 
I did answer your letter; I was very glad to receive 
it — it gave me great pleasure. You didn’t get my 
answer?” 

“No, indeed, I never got it; it went astray, then! 
Your second letter, of course, arrived after I had 
gone, but I ought to have had the first. I’ve never 
had a line from you, till this note with the draft, since 
I left England.” 

The old man tapped his fingers on the arm of the 
chair. “I had hoped that you would write to me 
from Melbourne,” he said slowly, “when I was 
obliged to discontinue your allowance. It was not 
my fault. It was explained to you that I could not 
help it. You knew that the Bar was never a large 
income to me, and there was no prospect of my suc- 
cession for me to raise money on. When my divi- 
dends ceased I was in great trouble — very great 
trouble — for a long while. I hoped that I should 
hear from my son to say — to say that he was sorry.” 

“I wish you had!” said Maurice sincerely. “Well, 
I was younger then, and bitterer; that’s the only 
reason I’ve got. I’ve had some tolerably rough les- 
sons since — if it’s any satisfaction to you to know it!” 

“You have been poor, you have had a hard time; 
and it may have done you no harm. But while you 


52 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


have been away there has been nothing — nothing 
else, Philip?” 

“Pve only done one disgraceful thing in my life,” 
said Maurice; “that I can swear!” 

The baronet sighed. “There was more than the 
one,” he said, “but I know what you mean. Well, 
what is past is past. After all, you were not twenty ! 
Many men have turned over a new leaf later, and 
made a career for themselves. You have not made 
a career, but if you have changed your ways you have 
done enough. I — I am glad to believe you did not 
get my answer to your letter; it distressed me very 
much that, after I had replied, the years should pass 
without your writing again.” 

The soup was brought in and they took their 
seats at the table; the butler was the only servant in 
attendance, but for the first time since he was a lad 
Maurice knew a well-served dinner. The surround- 
ings, however, were too impressive to be desirable 
in his straying eyes; the carved and bracketed ceil- 
ing, supported by strange animals’ heads, the mas- 
siveness of the furniture and the huge, dark portraits 
on the walls were awesome to him. Once, as the 
warmth of Burgundy ran through his veins, a half- 
smile curved his mouth; he was picturing Rosa 
Fleming dining in the coffee room in Bloomsbury. 
He must telegraph to her guardedly in the morning. 


53 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


Poor woman, she was doubtless counting the min- 
utes until she heard his news! 

When they rose, he was relieved to be led to “Sir 
Noel’s room,” where he found morocco arm- 
chairs and cigars. 

“I haven’t congratulated you,” he said; “I suppose 
I may use the word ‘congratulate’? It seems very 
queer when I look back and remember where I saw 
you last!” 

“Yes,” said Sir Noel, “it is wonderful — very won- 
derful — that it should come to me! It is something 
to be proud of, one of the oldest baronetcies in Eng- 
land, eh? And yet it has come rather late for me to 
appreciate it fully for myself. If — if your mother 
had lived, how happy she would have been to-day! 
I have often thought of her since I have been here, 
and wished that she could see it with me!” His head 
drooped pensively; “I used to be rather glad that 
she was dead!” 

“I suppose,” said Maurice, “you mean that you 
were glad because of me?” 

“Ah, I should not have said that, I — am sorry! 
You must forgive me. Well, well, well, we were 
talking of other things! There are over a hundred 
farms, and the park is at least five hundred acres; 
and the place is grand — you have no idea yet. There 
is the room where Charles II. slept before he fled, 
and — and the pictures are very fine — Vandykes, 


54 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


Teniers; you will see! Then there are very charm- 
ing people; I cannot visit much, though I have 
driven over to them once or twice when it has been 
mild; but they make allowance for my age. Which- 
cote — Lady Wrensfordsley’s place — is close; Lady 
Helen, her daughter, is one of the loveliest girls you 
have ever seen. And Provand has a house here — 
his family are down here now — and there are the 
Saviles. Provand and I were called at the same 
time. I recollect when the dinners were a great at- 
traction to him, because of their cheapness; but 
now he has made a big practice and has taken silk. 
I wish you had gone to the Bar, or had been a ’Var- 
sity man! When people ask what you have done 
abroad — well, well, you have travelled; you never 
met anybody, that is all! I remember when you 
were a little boy and we stayed in — in — where did 
we stay? — when we stayed at some watering place 
you took riding lessons for a few weeks; but I could 
not afford them for you again, and of course you 
forgot all you had learned. They ride to hounds, 
you know; you mustn’t be ‘out of it,’ you mustn’t 
be ‘out of it’; you must hunt, and shoot, and do 
everything! The place will come to you — my son 
must play his part, and — and be admired!” 

“I am afraid I shan’t distinguish myself as a shot. 
I had a gun in my hands in Kimberley for the first 
time for years, and then there wasn’t any occasion 


55 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


to fire. But I can ride a bit — I was in the North- 
west Police once. ,, 

“The police?” 

“ 'Canadian Mounted,’ you know; it sounds rather 
well if you roll it out!” said Maurice coolly. Never- 
theless he was a trifle sorry that he had let the fact 
slip; it was inadvisable to be precise. He wished the 
real man’s biographical details had been less dis- 
reputable. “I’ve been a good many things,” he con- 
tinued; “I’ve had to live, and to put my pride in my 
pocket; and it has often been all I had there. In 
New York I was a reporter for six weeks. I was a 
flat failure as a reporter. I only had one assign- 
ment — and that settled me!” 

“Assignment?” said Sir Noel vaguely; “I don’t 
understand. Tell me; I am interested.” 

“ ‘Assignments’ are the daily jobs. I was sup- 
posed to be reporting for a news agency. I used to 
go down town every morning, and open a little 
locker to see what mission had been entrusted to 
me ; but the locker was always empty. I was a nov- 
ice, you see, and the experienced hands got all the 
work. Then I went back to my room, with a book 
from a free library, and read; there wasn’t anything 
else to do. A fellow had told me I might earn thirty- 
five dollars a week at the business, but I didn’t earn 
a cent. It was rather hard lines, because the time 

came when Well, it was rather hard lines! One 

56 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


morning I did find a slip of paper in my locker. I 
was instructed to interview a girl who had just lost 
her mother. The address was in Brooklyn, and it 
was a terrifically hot day — I was pretty tired when I 
got there; and I had to pay my own fare, too! I 
had to put all sorts of questions to her, you know; 
how old the corpse was, and where it was to be bur- 
ied, and what time the funeral started; and then I 
reckoned to write at least six lines of description of 
the ‘floral offerings’ — the reporters always called the 
wreaths ‘floral offerings’; and six lines, when you 
were to be paid on the string, meant food.” 

“It meant food!” murmured Sir Noel. “Yes; 
well?” 

“Well, as I say, I was a failure. The girl came 
down to me looking rather like death herself; her 
eyes were awful to see, and when she asked me 
what it was I wanted to hear, her voice wobbled. 
So I just said that there wasn’t anything at all, and 
that I was immensely sorry to have bothered her. 
Of course I had to explain to the manager why I 
hadn’t a report when I got back; and after he had 
had a fit, I was fired.” 

“ ‘Fired’?” 

“Sacked! ‘Fired’ is American, but the process is 
just as prompt. I was a clerk in a Collateral Bank 
next — you would have called it a pawnbroker’s — 
but I only stayed there a fortnight, and left with a 


57 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


‘V’ as capital while I looked round again; a ‘V* 
means five dollars. Oh, yes, I think Fve been 
everything, except a success, but — er — I got a few 
hundred pounds together, as the years went on, or 
I couldn’t have gone into the ostrich farm. I should 
like another cigar.” 

Whisky and potash-water had been brought into 
the room, and he took a long draught from his 
glass, and lit a cedar-spill with appreciative delib- 
eration. After Cape lucifers, cedar-spills were good 
to use. 

“And in Kimberley,” said Sir Noel, “when you 
had lost your money, what did you do there? You 
said that the last time you held a gun was in Kim- 
berley.” 

“Oh, that was during the Kama Company’s row, 
before I found an overseer’s berth. The men were 
on strike, and they had sworn to destroy the gear. 
The Company offered a pound a day to fellows to 
come up, and defend it, and those who were broke 
went. The rifles were provided — and not much 
else. Nobody saw soap for a week. We slept on 
the ground, of course, and there were no plates, or 
forks, or other luxuries. When the meat was done 
enough, it was hooked out of the cauldron with a 
pickaxe, and we ate it in our fingers. It was a 
very dirty time, but not in the least dangerous. We 
patrolled in turns at night, and once there was a 


58 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


cry of 'All fires out — every man to his post!’ but 
nothing happened. Every one felt very foolish, I 
think! At the end of the week I went home, and 
washed. And then I collected six pounds, and had 
a dinner. I did enjoy that beer; a bottle of beer 
costs three-and-sixpence on the Fields, but it was 
worth the money!” 

Sir Noel coughed, and leant his head on his 
hand. “I do not recognize you,” he said at last, 
“you have come back so different. But you have 
improved. I like your tone; it is manly — your tone 
suits you, Philip! I am glad you have come back.” 

“I am glad to hear you say so,” Maurice re- 
turned. “I’ve been knocked into shape since the 
days you’re thinking about. Experience is a better 
tutor than Benson, you know! . . . Don’t you 

remember Benson — after the affair at the Bedford 
school? What an outsider the fellow was, now I 
look back at him!” 

“Yes,” said Sir Noel, “I remember now. I 
trusted him, and heAleceived me.” 

Maurice frowned involuntarily. “And though 
I’ve had a rough time, I dare say I shall be able to 
shake down all right, with a little practice,” he 
went on. “I shan’t be any good at a dance as long 
as I live, I’m afraid, but I shall pick up the rest.” 

“You want clothes,” said Sir Noel. “You must 
have clothes at once; in the meantime you are im- 


59 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


possible. We will telegraph to a tailor in the morn- 
ing to send a man down. Well, well, well, tell me 
more! Go on, talk to me; I like to hear you 
talk! Take another drink — you are very abste- 
mious! At my age it is necessary, but you are a 
young man.” 

They sat together until eleven, and then Sir Noel 
retired. “You will not mind if I leave you?” he in- 
quired. “I am obliged to keep early hours now.” 

Maurice opened the door for him, and turned 
slowly, and lit a third cigar. 

When it was smoked to the end, he rang the bell, 
and Cope showed him the way to his bedroom. He 
sat gazing at his room, and thinking again, for a 
long while before he undressed. Once or twice 
he shook his mind free of his thoughts, and crossed 
the floor curiously to examine something. He 
drew the curtains aside, and looked over the park, 
solemn under a watery moon. Was it all real? 
Had this thing happened in his life! And clothes, 
clothes fashionable, with piles of shirts, and a row 
of boots, were to be his as soon as West End 
tradesmen could make them for him. 

The thought of the row of boots recurred in his 
meditations after he was in bed, and was the last 
vague fancy that flitted across his mind before he 
fell asleep. 


60 


CHAPTER IV. 


Sir Noel seldom descended before noon, and 
when Maurice had learnt the fact, and breakfasted, 
next morning he went out. Oakenhurst looked 
less desolate by daylight; indeed he could easily 
conceive that in summer it was very pretty. Hav- 
ing walked into the village, he inquired the way 
to the telegraph office, and there despatched his 
message to Rosa. He wrote: “Found my father 
feeble, but otherwise all right. No cause for anx- 
iety. — Philip.” 

After luncheon the baronet wished to conduct 
him through the house, but the role of guide 
speedily fatigued the old man, and the housekeeper 
was deputed to take his place. When Maurice re- 
joined him he was sitting by the fire in his room, 
with the Times on his knees, polishing his pince-nez 
with his handkerchief. He looked up eagerly. 

“Well?” he exclaimed. “Well, what, eh?” 

“I never imagined such a place!” said Maurice. 
“I can’t say any more, but I feel the greatness of it 
right in my heart.” 

The puckered face brightened with pleasure. 


61 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“Everybody says so! There is nothing like it here. 
Whichcote is quite modern in comparison — you 
will see when they come back. They are in Algiers 
now. I am sorry I could not remain with you, but 
I soon get tired. At seventy-six we are not ener- 
getic — and our sight is not so strong as it used to 
be either!” he added, striking the newspaper testily. 

“You oughtn’t to try your sight,” said Maurice. 
“Would you care for me to — to read that to you 
for a little while?” 

Sir Noel peered at him with what seemed to be 
a shade of incredulity. 

“Would you really do it,” he said; “are you sure 
it wouldn’t bore you? I am not so old that I’ve 
forgotten that the elderly soon become trying; and 
you — you have no need to pay me attentions, you 
know.” 

“I’m the most selfish man that ever lived,” said 
Maurice; “if it went against the grain I’m afraid I 
shouldn’t make the offer.” 

But after the reading had continued for half an 
hour Sir Noel declared that there was no more he 
wished to hear, and presently he dozed. When his 
eyes opened they dwelt on Maurice with satisfac- 
tion, and the white head nodded slowly. Then the 
baronet and the impostor conversed again, and the 
evening passed much as the one before. 

The following afternoon Maurice went up to 


62 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


town. He had an open check for a hundred pounds 
in his note-book, and from Waterloo he drove to 
the hotel in Bloomsbury. 

Mrs. Fleming was in the drawing-room, he 
heard, and he entered unannounced. A middle- 
aged person, whose countenance proclaimed her 
maidenhood, was stitching red flannel by the win- 
dow, and in a green rep armchair, with a crochet 
antimacassar, a curate was reading the Christian 
World . Rosa sprang to her feet, with a dozen in- 
terrogatories in her gaze. 

“Oh, how do you do?” she said, in consideration 
of the maiden lady and the curate. 

“Extremely well, thanks!” replied Maurice, con- 
sidering all three. “Shall we go out?” he sug- 
gested, in a lower voice; “I want to get to the bank 
before four and we can talk. I’ll wait for you while 
you put your things on.” 

She did not keep him waiting long, and they 
strolled into New Oxford Street before they hailed 
a cab. 

“And it is really all right?” she inquired. “You 
don't think he is suspicious; you don’t think he’s 
watching you?” 

“No,’ 1 said the man; “I am quite sure he isn’t.” 

“I scarcely dared to hope you would get any 
money from him so soon! Was it difficult to 
work?” 


63 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“No,” he said again; “I didn’t work it at all — he 
gave me the money. I meant to ask for some in 
time enough for you, but as it happens I can only 
claim credit for the intention. In point of fact, he 
doesn’t answer to your description a bit; he isn’t 
vindictive, and he isn’t hard, and he isn’t mean.” 

“Really?” she said. “I suppose he has changed.” 

“He must have changed a great deal if his son 
read him rightly. Well, how have you been?” 

“How have I been?” she cried; “didn’t you see 
the place? I’d rather be alone in Lennox Street than 
have those ghastly people over me all day. And it 
has rained all the time; I haven’t been outside the 
door till now. When do you think I can move?” 

“You can move whenever you like; there’s noth- 
ing to prevent you. I daresay I shall be able to 
bring you some more before your share of this has 
gone.” 

“Twenty-five pounds won’t last very long,” she 
said; “I can’t move as I am — I haven’t a rag to my 
back.” 

“You’re going to have fifty. You see, I get an 
outfit, besides; I can’t give you your share of what 
it costs, so the least you’re entitled to is half this 
hundred. I’m not sure that even that is fair.” 

“Why, yes,” she said, “thanks! Fifty is quite 
fair — fifty will do a lot. Well, what’s it like — what’s 
the place like? You seem to take it all very calmly. 

64 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


We have succeeded! Aren’t you crazy with delight? 
Haven’t you got anything to say?” 

“The place makes the past seem very real to you, 
and you feel very humble in it,” said Maurice. “I 
should think any one would feel very humble in it. 
My bedroom overlooks the park; the park is five 
hundred acres. There are over a hundred farms. 
The old man likes me. What else am I to tell you?” 

They had reached the bank, and he took her in 
with him, and gave her ten of the five-pound notes 
when they had re-entered the hansom. 

“I have to go to a hatter’s, and to the tailor’s, to 
try some suits on,” he said. “If you don’t mind 
waiting in the cab for me, we’ll have a swell dinner 
somewhere before I go back.” 

She clutched his arm. “But won’t they stare at 
us like this? Everybody will be in evening dress.” 

“Oh, not everybody! Besides, if you’d prefer it, 
we can choose a quiet place.” 

“No,” she said, “no; I’d like to be in the gaslight 
among people again. Where shall we go?” 

“You aren’t in good hands, but we’ll go to the 
best place we can think of — or the best place where 
our clothes will pass. By the way, I’ve often meant 
to ask you — did — did Jardine speak French, or 
anything but English?” 

“He knew a little French, but he couldn’t speak,” 
she answered. 


65 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“That’s all right!” said Maurice. “Everybody 
‘knows’ a little French — we have all been to 
school.” 

After the tailor’s had been visited they had some 
lukewarm coffee in two tiny teacups at a con- 
fectioner’s in Bond Street, for a shilling a cup; and 
then they looked at the shop windows, and saun- 
tered into Regent Street, where they looked at the 
shops, too. It amused Maurice to note the furs of 
the winter and the flowers of the summer such near 
neighbors, and he wondered in which branches of 
art the young men were celebrated who scowled 
so intellectually in their photographs — not under- 
standing that they were celebrities’ sons. He 
bought a hat for her that she stopped to admire — 
or, more accurately, he bought a dearer one which 
they saw inside, for the “young lady who attended” 
to them insisted that the hat from the window was 
s “rather matronly for you, moddam.” 

A stranger inclined to speculate about them 
would have been puzzled to determine what tie ex- 
isted; they were not attracted by each other cer- 
tainly — the absence of the sexual magic in their 
relation was obvious on both sides; they weren’t 
brother and sister — the facial characteristics were 
too dissimilar; they weren’t husband and wife — a 
quick ear could detect that in their tones. But the 
“big Colonial” who looked at her so carelessly was 


66 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


paying for the handsome woman’s hat, and then 
they went away together to dine. 

Now, Maurice was irritated by his own perplex- 
ity, though he would not suffer his demeanor to be- 
tray him; he would have liked to order the dinner 
with the utmost judgment, to select the wines with 
scrupulous taste. He was aware by hearsay that 
one may pay for the elaboration with which the 
waiter eyes the glass, rather than for what the 
bottle contains, and that the pre-eminence of a vint- 
age in a restaurant occasionally lies in the gravity 
with which he lifts the cradle. It annoyed Maurice 
to feel unsophisticated in the ornate room where 
women’s necks gleamed so whitely, and dining had 
evidently been elevated to the plane of an art. 
When a man’s choice of hors-d’oeuvres is “natives,” 
however, he strikes the keynote to his intentions, 
and if the waiter to whom he has drifted is intelli- 
gent, all may easily go well. Maurice accepted 
several recommendations with regard to the menu, 
but sought guidance with the air of one whom it 
is unwise to deceive. Rosa preferred hock and 
champagne, and, resigning himself to order blindly 
Schloss Johannisberg ’62 and Perrier Jouet ’74, his 
deliberation as he spoke the numbers suggested 
that a wine list held no secrets from him. The 
waiter’s conjectures about the stranger who car- 
ried himself with such assurance in a pea-jacket, 


67 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


and commanded the dinner of a wealthy man 
mounted rapidly; and when the peaches were pro- 
nounced flavourless he staked his all, and did that 
which Maurice was far from appreciating as it de- 
served — he suggested pousse-cafes. 

They were so pretty that Rosa said it was a 
shame to disturb them, but it was past eight 
o'clock, and Maurice wanted to catch the quick 
train. Nevertheless, when he had put her into a 
cab, he did not immediately call another for him- 
self. For the first time he stood on the pavement 
of the West End independent, and his fancy 
hummed with the knowledge. His mind reverted 
to the women whom he had watched inside, as they 
murmured, and dined, and lifted their lashes, and 
smiled — the women among the English parties, in 
their fashionable toilettes. What did the young 
men who placed the capes about their delicate 
shoulders so composedly say to interest them? 
Would he know what to say? He feared not. Yet 
he wished himself for a few hours in the position 
of the men. 

The thought of the silent house in Surrey jarred 
on his mood. How graceful that woman had been 
who looked back and nodded to the people in the 
far corner as she left! How charming the move- 
ment! Such a quick careless turn, and yet express- 
ing everything so perfectly: “Well, we shall see 
68 


i 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


you afterwards. Au revoir — I know it’s going to 
be very pleasant; I hope you won’t be bored your- 
selves!” How exquisitely her frock became her; 
and how perfect her neck and throat! 

The pale curve of Regent Street gleamed enti- 
cingly. He wanted to hear a woman’s voice in a 
song of sentiment— or to see a ballet — or to ride 
fast through cold air — anything but to go to Croft 
Court! The burst of brightness at the Circus 
pleased his eyes, and the exteriors of the variety- 
theatres shone with momentary allurement. But 
next, the thought that he would feel cooped if he 
obeyed his impulse made him hesitate. He strolled 
along Piccadilly, undecided whether he would go 
back and enter one or not. Alternately the notion 
attracted and repelled him. His desires took no 
definite form, but he was craving for excitement, 
athirst to gulp at the cup that he had bought, here 
and now. 

When he looked at a clock, he had only time to 
catch the last train of all; he had not imagined that 
it was so late. He was annoyed with himself, and 
depressed. What he had won seemed in the new 
melancholy that pervaded him an empty posses- 
sion. Now the thought of the women whom he 
had viewed in the restaurant came back to him 
heavily, but his mind turned under it, to think with 
impatience of the men. How soon would the real 

' 69 




THE WORLDLINGS. 


life be open to him — the life that he had a right to 
expect? When would he snatch the key to the 
inner London where things were at their best — 
where it was futile to paint the wrinkles, to gild 
the gingerbread, or throw perfume on the dirty 
handkerchief. 

He looked about him, and for him habitude had 
spun no veil. The hour was late for London. The 
theatres had shut their doors; in the music-halls 
the last “comedian” had sung the last refrain about 
the last kipper. It had struck eleven, and the 
amusements of the nation were suspended. Glum- 
eyed people traversed the dark town drearily, the 
black figures moving on the greyness like au- 
tomata. Through the gloom of Regent Street the 
fusty ’buses rumbled to the suburbs, the glimmer of 
their mediaeval oil-lamps tingeing the melancholy 
faces of the Londoners who went home because 
they had nowhere else to go. For the multitude no 
choice remained but liquor or bed. Depression 
pervaded the cant-ridden, unlighted capital like a 
fog; the windows of the publicans made the only 
cheer in the city of the Pharisees. On the pave- 
ments of Piccadilly he saw self-respecting citizens 
degraded by the shamelessness of the legislative 
mind; and knew that when an attempt was made to 
refine matters, it was severely punished. Counsel — 
with the tongue in the cheek — referred to the im- 


70 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


provement in terms of cloistral contempt; the mag- 
istrate — quantum mutatus ab illo — was officially 
appalled to learn that such iniquity had thriven; 
paragraphists — grinning as they wrote — proclaimed 
the need for “suppressing these offences with a 
strong hand.” The reformer was imprisoned, and 
the legislative immorality was content. It was the 
triumph of topsy-turvydom — the apotheosis of 
pretence. As he looked, the great sombre city 
seemed to him an incarnate nightmare. Then 
from the serried sidewalk there rose a strange 
sound: a sound that for a moment lightened his op- 
pression — the sound of a single laugh. Something 
in his breast vibrated, and he was startled by the 
knowledge that it was the first laugh he had heard 
in the London streets. 

When he reached home, Sir Noel had gone to 
bed, and Maurice was glad to seek his own. On 
the morrow the sun shone, and after they had saun- 
tered awhile on the terrace, he repeated his offices 
of the last few days. It became his custom to read 
to the old man for half an hour or so each morn- 
ing; and so unvarying was the routine of the house 
that when a week had passed since* the night of his 
arrival, it was strange to him to reflect that he had 
been here no longer. 

A dinner party was given at the Court shortly 
afterwards, and Sir Noel nodded approval to him- 


7i 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


self when Maurice appeared. Maurice, indeed, 
looked a fine fellow with his close-cropped beard 
and the air of distinction which the right tailor can 
confer on the right man. His eyes were quick; he 
had learnt at the restaurant that the most desirable 
fastening for the single stud-hole that he found in 
his shirt-fronts was a small pearl, and he had 
bought one — declining the more expensive orna- 
ments that resembled miniature brooches. He had 
observed that the best-dressed men there eschewed 
w r atch-chains in the evening, and this fashion had 
been the easier for him to obey since he did not 
possess one yet. Little would ever be lost on him; 
if it had already been the custom among the 
“best people” to banish their arms from their sta- 
tionery, the tyro would have been among the first 
to write on paper that was only stamped with the 
address; but the knowledge that he was apt did 
not lessen the fact that he was nervous. 

He strove to encourage himself by remembering 
that he had lived among gentle-people until he was 
nearly seventeen, but it was a long time ago; and 
he had never met county people, never met titled 
people, and, although it might be ridiculous, he 
could not avoid the misgiving that people with 
handles to their names must present other diffi- 
culties than that of not knowing what to call them. 
To storm Croft Court, and an old man who was 


72 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

awaiting his son, had merely required superlative 
courage, but the ordeal before him demanded 
something over and above the control of his nerves 
— it required experience. Though the circum- 
stances had enabled him to ask Sir Noel for in- 
formation on the points of which he knew in ad- 
vance that he was ignorant, he was haunted by the 
dread of critical moments impossible to foresee. 

Lady Wrensfordsley and Lady Helen Cleeve 
were still in Algiers, and Provand, of whom Sir 
Noel had spoken, had not returned to Oakenhurst 
since the commencement of the Hilary term. How- 
ever, Mrs. and Miss Provand came; and there were 
Sir Thomas and Lady Savile, and most of the other 
people of whom Maurice had heard, including the 
Rector and his wife — a rather surprising little 
blonde many years his junior, who confided to “Mr. 
Jardine” that parochial work was a “great respon- 
sibility” in a tone that suggested she meant a 
“great bore.” To his surprise he found the even- 
ing agreeable after half-an-hour, and it was only 
when the West Surrey hounds began to stream 
through the conversation that he had the impres- 
sion of following on a lame mount. 

Yet he was neither taciturn nor tactless; and 
when Sir Thomas told him the “rabbit shooting 
was wonderfully good,” and added, “but if you’re 
used to big game, I suppose that isn’t much pull?” 


73 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


he contrived to remark that he had done very little 
shooting without appearing to deprecate the fact. 

What the Rector called “your enviable acquaint- 
ance with foreign countries” was very useful to him 
on his debut. Central Park and Niagara, or Ad- 
derley Street and Table Mountain, present the 
same features of interest to the emigrant as to the 
tourist, and it was not necessary to state that he 
had admired the park at a period when his only 
luncheons had been provided gratis with a glass of 
beer, or first beheld the mountain from a steerage 
deck. 

Lady Savile had consented to play hostess, but 
her good nature could not be taxed too severely, 
and Sir Noel suggested the move to the drawing- 
room before long. Her cordiality was very gratify- 
ing to Maurice, and he thought her amusing, 
though she was secretly chagrined by the absence 
of her elder daughter, who some people maintained 
was a beauty, but who was eight-and-twenty, and 
still Miss Savile. The informality with which the 
lady hoped “to see a great deal of him in future” 
flattered him. He was not aware that Agatha Savile 
and her sister were returning from a visit in 
Leicestershire that week, nor would the fact have 
had any significance to him had he known it. 

Mrs. Provand’s manner was equally warm, and 
Miss Provand herself, though she said little, was 


74 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


so pretty that he pardoned her shyness for the sake 
of her eyelashes. He felt exhilarated by his self- 
possession; it seemed to him that nothing could 
be simpler than to talk to women in a drawing- 
room. How small a witticism provoked their 
laughter! When the “good nights” commenced, 
he was sorry that the party was finishing; he had 
not guessed that it would terminate so early, and 
he mentally registered the hour for his own guid- 
ance. People were delightful — they could not have 
been nicer to him if he had met them many times! 
He was conscious that it was not for his graces 
nor his talents that they made much of him; he 
understood that he merely shone in the reflected 
lustre of Sir Noel; but if he had heard that every 
woman present had been contemplating him in the 
light of somebody’s husband, he would have been 
dumfounded. His matrimonial eligibility — that 
the girl who secured him would be held to make a 
brilliant alliance — had not crossed his mind. He 
did not realize that he might marry the daughter 
of a duchess if he would — that in the position he 
occupied he was popularly regarded as a match 
for any woman in England. 


75 


CHAPTER V. 


As the novelty faded — as custom dulled its brill- 
iance, and he was enabled to see it steadily — life in 
Oakenhurst became galling to Maurice. If famili- 
arity with gentlewomen did not breed contempt, it 
begot tedium. Miss Provand’s eyelashes; the en- 
grossed gaze of Agatha Savile, and her trick of 
saying, “Do you think so? You don't ? 1 ' — a com- 
pliment to his profundity, not a contradiction — 
whenever he expressed a view; the empty chatter 
of her sister; the allusions to things he knew noth- 
ing about, all wearied him. 

It was not so easy after all to sustain a conversa- 
tion. He felt more foreign in the atmosphere now 
than he had done when he had first breathed it; yet 
it appeared to him sometimes, as the weeks went 
by, that the deficiency lay in English maidenhood 
rather than in himself. If, despite his limitations, 
he could talk less clumsily to the elder than to the 
younger women, it was because English maiden- 
hood under its becoming frocks was distinctly silly. 
Perhaps he should except Miss Savile; he was in- 
clined to think that with her the silliness was a 


76 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


pose, and that considerable shrewdness lay behind 
her artless gaze, but he didn’t like her. 

The dress of all the girls, their speech — flavoured 
with the phrases of the moment — the modernity of 
their manner had stimulated his curiosity; but they 
did not hold his interest. Besides Sir Noel had 
awakened him to his matrimonial value, and he 
could never marry; that would be the culminating 
crime, to jeopardize a girl’s future by asking her to 
share a position which he held by imposture! To 
what end should he sip tea in drawing-rooms, and 
yawn in spirit, while he perhaps encouraged a sim- 
pleton to anticipate a magnificent income that he 
could never offer? 

No, it wasn’t to flirt over a tea-table that he had 
done this thing! Nor had the pastimes of a coun- 
try gentleman any abiding attraction for him; he 
had roughed it so often from necessity that what 
he wanted now was to luxuriate. 

He recalled the visions that he had seen aboard 
ship: when was he going to realize them? That 
was what he had schemed for — to be his own mas- 
ter in cities, to play, and sup, and gather some of 
the “roses and raptures” of the world. Sir Thomas 
had offered to “put him up” at Boodle’s, and he 
had accepted the suggestion with alacrity, but even 
when he should be elected, it seemed to him that 
his opportunities for learning the password to in- 


77 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


ner London — for discovering the “Sesame” and 
Roses— would be few. Sir Noel had once referred 
to the desirability of his making a public career, 
and the proposal had appalled him; he knew, nor 
cared, nothing about politics; he would never be 
able to open his mouth in the House if he were 
there! There were hours when he tramped under 
the ancestral oaks and beeches, feeling with exas- 
peration that he had paid away his liberty, as well 
as his honor, and had little in return — that he was 
like a child mocked with an expensive present 
which he mustn’t touch. 

Then he asked himself if he had lost his senses; 
this place would be his. But when Sir Noel died! 
He didn’t desire him to die! he liked him; he would 
have been quite satisfied that the baronet should 
live to be a centenarian if only the circumstances 
had been different. 

Rosa Fleming was almost equally disappointed, 
and he had begun to dread his visits to her a shade. 
She had removed to a!n hotel in the West End, and 
had primarily viewed the world with smiling eyes; 
but the world, after all, never smiled back to her. 
She was alone, and her resources were precarious. 
She did not mistrust Maurice — he appeared, as she 
had exclaimed once or twice, to be “playing very 
fair” with her — and common sense told her that no 
writing between them would in any way strengthen 

78 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


her hand; yet, whether it was his fault or not, her 
situation lacked a good deal. Where were the 
social advantages that had been promised? 

At first the glitter of the table d’hote, to go 
everywhere in hansoms, and the consciousness that 
whether she bought her gloves in Holborn, or the 
Burlington Arcade, somebody else would pay the 
prices, had all been exciting; but such excitement 
soon wore out. She had known such things before. 
The charm, to the woman, was not even that of a 
brilliant novelty, but only of a brilliant revival; and 
she was reminded in how much gayer surroundings 
she had spent money last. To be sure, there were 
the comic operas and the variety-theatres — she sat 
in the hall, enviously watching the people filter out 
after dinner sometimes, but to be seen about Lon- 
don by herself at night would be indiscreet. Her 
mind was set on big stakes, she wanted a footing 
in society, all that Jardine would have given to her 
had he lived; she must be careful of her reputation. 

It was impossible that through her brain should 
never flit the perception that all that Jardine could 
have given to her, the man who was personating 
him could give; and for this reason, although she 
trusted Maurice, her feeling for him was one of 
respect, and not of liking. “Respect,” though it 
sounds a curious term in the connection, was the 
only favourable sentiment that he now inspired in 


79 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


her. She might have married him, and he looked 
at her as if she had been a man! He knew too 
much about her; she had “given herself away” to 
him, and she was chagrined to feel it. It was true 
that the first rich man she met would probably ap- 
peal to her more; but their interests were one; it 
seemed to her that he would take a wise step in 
making her his wife; and she, moreover, was un- 
likely ever to meet any other man who could pro- 
vide her with so much. It irritated her that she, 
for whom others had committed follies, should be 
treated by her partner with impassivity. 

The expression of her ennui to Maurice had been 
murmurs rather than complaints hitherto, but 
once, when he came, she spoke plainly: 

“I don’t see what I have to look forward to,” she 
said. “How would you care about it? I don’t 
know a soul. Two or three of the women here 
have dropped a few words to me— and I’m pre- 
pared with a few lies; but there’s no occasion to tell 
them; I don’t get any 'forrader/ I can’t make a 
circle of acquaintances living like this!” 

“Well, what do you want me to do?” he asked. 

“I don’t know why you don’t introduce me to Sir 
Noel; that was the arrangement! At least, the ar- 
rangement was that I should have every chance of 
meeting people. Croft Court would be a very good 
place to begin at!” 


80 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“I don’t think Sir Noel would be very rollick- 
ing company for you,” he said diffidently. “You 
would be much duller at Croft Court than here.” 

“But I should see it — I want to see it! Remem- 
ber you are having a very good time! Besides, 
there are other people at Oakenhurst — you tell me 
that you hunt, and go out to dinner; there are 
plenty of people I would rather meet than Sir Noel. 
I see the Countess of Wrensfordsley has a house 
there — why shouldn’t I be introduced to her?” 

“You wouldn’t see her if you went to Oaken- 
hurst,” he answered; “they went abroad for the 
winter, and they aren’t back yet. By the way, they 
pronounce it ‘Wrensley,’ and she’s spoken of as 
‘Lady’ Wrensfordsley; I’m sure I don’t know why.” 

“But she is the Countess of Wrensfordsley,” said 
Rosa, omitting the redundant syllable, “I saw her 
name in print.” 

“Yes; well, a countess is called ‘Lady,’ I discover. 
I tell you I don’t know why. I’m not an authority 
on such matters; I take them as I find them.” He 
played with his watch-chain nervously. “These 
things arrange themselves,” he went on, repeating 
a phrase that he had heard Lady Savile use, “the 
whole affair is new yet; it will be all right — if you 
wait awhile, everything will come.” 

“I thought I should have a flat,” she said sul- 
lenly; “I don’t want to live in an hotel.” 

81 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“Well, surely a flat would be slower still? You 
would be like Robinson Crusoe on his island.” 

“I could go out,” she muttered. “I could take 
drives.” 

“You can go out now — the streets are already 
here. I give you my word that it isn’t all beer and 
skittles for me! I knew you thought I was ‘having 
a good time.’ I suppose in one way I am; but 
there’s more than a dash of disappointment about 
it, too. If you didn’t look forward to being in an 
hotel, I didn’t hanker to live in a village. I wanted 
money in a lump; I don’t like the checks — every 
time he gives me one it reminds me I’m a thief.” 

“Oh, rats!” she said impatiently; “you’d never be 
satisfied, I believe! When you’re Sir Philip Jar- 
dine, you’ll find something wrong!” 

“When I’m ‘Sir Philip Jardine’ you’ll have five 
thousand a year,” said Maurice, “and you can have 
a dozen flats if you like!” 

“With nobody to come to see me in them! I 
tell you that I want to know people. Even five 
thousand a year is no good if I’m never to have any 

introductions I haven’t sprung this 

on you — it isn’t anything fresh; from the very com- 
mencement, when we sat talking in Lennox Street, 
I told you that what I wanted was to make as good 
a marriage as Phil would have been. It isn’t my 
game to pick up any friends I can, and just make 


82 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


the coin fly; I want to marry a swell — I want to go 
to the top!” 

“Well,” he said, “well, perhaps you will!” 

“Why shouldn’t I?” she exclaimed with sup- 
pressed vehemence. “Look at the women who do! 
Flossie Coburg from the music-hall stage! a slim, 
slip of a stick, too, they said. If she could do it, 
with nothing but her face to attract anybody, I 
think I ought to be able to, in a good position. 
Flossie Coburg, if you please — a duchess to-day! 
And how many more of them are the Countess of 
This, and Lady Somebody-else! Well, every one 
remembers who they were. Vm not going to do 
it from the music-hall stage — I’m going to do it 
properly, and be respected just as much as if I’d 
been brought up among fashionable people. I 
thought you — you’d remember that you have to 
thank me for everything — I thought you would be 
glad — more, that you’d be eager — to make as big 
a return as you could.” 

“What do you want me to do?” demanded Maur- 
ice again. “Don’t you see the difficulties? I’m a 
stranger everywhere myself yet; I can’t make my 
entrance into this precious society with ‘Mrs. 
Fleming’ on my arm. Wait a few months, wait till 
I’m a little more familiar with my own footing; 
wait till people have got used to me. I remember 
everything, but give me a chance!” 


83 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

The truth in the answer was sufficiently obvious 
for Rosa to realize afresh how smoothly events 
would roll if only she were to become his wife. She 
wondered, after he had left, whether the chance 
would have been born if she had concealed her dis- 
content from him longer. Had those earlier mur- 
murs of hers made her a bugbear to him? And 
now she had taunted him with what she had done! 
What a fool she was; she had lost more ground 
still! Her impulses were always ruinous! 

Yet — yet surely, in a different key, she might 
open his eyes to the fact that she was a handsome 
woman? He was ready enough to perceive beauty 
in others. How his gaze had wandered away from 
her to the pretty women in the restaurant! She 
had never forgiven him that. The imposture would 
never be discovered now, and it would be the finest 
thing that she could do, to marry him! Yes, she 
would take a sweeter tone; she would wait as he 
had begged her to do. The bond between them 
gave her the advantage of his only confidante — with 
patience and tact she might be Lady Jardine after 
all. 

While the younger man was panting for free- 
dom, the other had arrived, by the protracted 
stages of the old, at a point where their medita- 
tions met. One day when Maurice had put down 
the newspapers, and Sir Noel had murmured, as 


84 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


he always did, “I thank you very much, Philip,” a 
long silence fell between them. At last the baronet 
said: 

“I have been thinking, Philip, about you. I — 
have been thinking.” 

“About me?” said Maurice; “what?” 

Sir Noel did not answer at once; he gave a series 
of his little nods, rather vigorously. 

“I have been thinking that the life here must be 
dull for you; and now many of the neighbours will 
be leaving soon, too. I shall not go; one home is 
enough for me — I have never seen the town house 
yet.” 

“Whose town house — ours?” Maurice asked, 
surprised. “I didn’t know there was one!” 

“Certainly there is a house — in Prince’s Gar- 
dens; I told you so long ago.” 

“I don’t remember it,” said Maurice. 

“In Prince’s Gardens, of course I told you — why 
should I make a secret of it! Well, well, well, that 
is not the point. What was I saying? You con- 
fuse me with your foolish questions. . . . Yes, 
the neighbours will be going to town, and Oaken- 
hurst will be very slow for you. Apart from that, 
altogether, you should be seen in London, you 
mustn’t be ‘buried’ here; you must do the right 
things.” 


85 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

Maurice looked at him, drawing a deep, long 
breath. 

“You might go to Prince’s Gardens, or you 
might have chambers — probably you would find 
chambers more convenient. Piccadilly! You 
should take chambers in Piccadilly. It is no life 
for a young man to pass the year here! You 

should have your — your — your brougham I 

don’t know what you should have — your phaeton! 
You should have something! You must remember 
that you have a position, and things are expected 
of you.” His tone implied that Maurice had op- 
posed the proposal strenuously. “Well!” — he 
paused, and tapped his knees — “you must have an 
allowance. You can draw, say, three housand a 
year. Come! three thousand a year. It will be 
enough, eh?” 

“It is extremely generous,” said Maurice. 

“No, it isn’t a matter of ‘generosity’ — it is your 
right. And, besides, I wish it. It is absurd that 
you should live as you are living now, like a lad 
with pocket-money. It will all be yours by-and-by, 
too! Three thousand a year is not so much that I 
cannot spare it, but it will do to go on with! You 
must take chambers, of course. I am no good to 
you for company. In town you will find livelier 
companions than an old father with a cough, who 
makes you read the paper to him. And I shall get 


86 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


on very well, don’t you fear. I have my own occu- 
pations; I — I think a great deal. At my age one is 
best by oneself. But — but all the same, I shall 
miss you, and — you will come to see me, Philip?” 

“I shall come very often,” said Maurice, “oftener 
than you will want me.” He was touched. 

“You will not come oftener than I shall want 
you; but I know my duty, and you will go! Well, 
well, well, we talk a great deal about nothing. I 
can never keep to the subject in speaking of any- 
thing to you — you go off at a tangent all the time ; 
you always annoyed me with that habit as a boy!” 

He waved his hand impatiently, as a sign that 
conversation had ended; and Maurice saw that he 
wished to be alone. 


87 


CHAPTER VI. 


He was receiving for his own expenditure 
twenty-two hundred and fifty pounds a year, and 
occasionally the knowledge had power to thrill 
Maurice with astonishment still. But he did not 
often draw rein to contemplate the figures; the 
figures of his income after all were unimportant; 
his means were practically unbounded, for no man 
about town could have raised thousands with 
greater promptitude. With a subtlety of distinc- 
tion somewhat difficult to follow, however, he felt 
that while he was dishonest to accept Sir Noel’s 
allowance, he would be considerably baser to ex- 
ceed it; and his only visit to a bill discounter’s was 
— in the language of the friend whom he obliged — 
made to “jump up behind a pal’s back.” The ab- 
breviation “to jump” was not yet general. 

Moreover, he tried to avoid running into debt, 
though it often seemed to him to-day that ready 
money was the last thing necessary in life. His 
difficulty was no longer to pay for what he needed, 
but to persuade people to be paid. His tailor met 
his request for an account with a deprecating 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


smile, and he might have had six rows of boots 
delivered now without producing a coin. The 
florist from whom he ordered bouquets, and who 
sent a girl to decorate his table when he gave a 
dinner, even the restaurateurs who were used to 
his patronage, and the jeweller who had had the 
privilege of supplying him with bracelets, all wore 
the air of being reimbursed superabundantly by the 
mere honour of Mr. Jardine’s approval. Given half 
a sovereign a day for hansoms, it appeared to him 
that he might have lived at the rate of ten thousand 
a year without drawing a check. 

Yet, if ready money was not an essential, it pro- 
vided him with a keen pleasure; he gave freely. 
Not to public charities — as a man accustomed to 
poverty, the existence of public charities wasn’t a 
familiar fact to him — but no beggar ever appealed 
to him in vain. During his months in London 
there had not been an occasion on which he had 
turned a deaf ear to distress in the streets, or asked 
himself if it was simulated. Once he had risked 
ridicule. In approaching White’s, with a member 
whom he had first met at the Provands’, he had 
passed a man of about his own age, in the station 
of life that he himself had recently occupied. The 
man was walking slowly; his eyes were vacant, and 
despair was written on his face; perhaps he had 
just applied for a billet, and been refused. Maurice 


89 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


took out a five pound note and turned quickly. “I 
owe you this!” he said, pushing it into the breast- 
pocket of the threadbare coat; and he had entered 
the hall before the man realized what had been 
done. 

Nevertheless, he was plucking the “roses and 
raptures” of his desires. His chambers were in 
Bury Street, adjacent to Boodle’s; the proprietor 
of the club was the landlord. They had been rec- 
ommended by Captain Boulger, a brother of Lady 
Savile, who had rooms in the same house, and 
who assured him that he would find Boodle’s the 
best club in London, because one only paid the bills 
there when one liked; the conditions were so happy 
that he feared they couldn’t last. From Boulger 
Maurice had acquired various hints. He had 
his stall where his entrance was watched for, and 
his box when he kept behind the curtains. He had 
known his first Ascot, where he won a “pony” on 
Tristan, and lunched among the surprising mil- 
linery in the Guards’ tent. He had been introduced 
to Bignon’s, and seen Paris when the acacias were 
in bloom. He had even made his bows on fash- 
ionable staircases while the bands were playing, 
though this far more rarely than the cards among 
the photographs on the mantelpiece required. And 
he did not find it all dead sea fruit, and reflect that 
the overseer’s simple lot had held more genuine 


90 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


happiness; he did not sigh that it was “worthless 
and hollow.” On the contrary, it was just as good 
as he had known that it would be, and excepting 
for pangs of conscience, which he overcame, he 
enjoyed it very much. 

Rosa’s spirits, also, had been raised. The change 
in his affairs had provided her with more than the 
flat that she now occupied — she had obtained one, 
furnished, for a year. Maurice did not forget that 
she was a stranger in London, and she had had to 
thank him for many amusing evenings; indeed, he 
had begun to wonder whether she was not allow- 
ing herself to be seen about with him too often. 
He did not forget Rosa, and he did not forget his 
promise to Sir Noel. He never wrote to him, be- 
cause he feared to do so, but he telegraphed often 
• — inquiries about an indisposition, or notifications 
of arrival — and many times he declined an invita- 
tion that he would have been glad to accept, be- 
cause he knew that the old man would be disap- 
pointed if his visit were postponed. 

He had waited so long for some brightness in 
life that he was burning the candle at both ends 
now. The season, however, had not been wasted 
on him, although he shirked the staircases. His 
introductions among men had been numerous 
enough, and he had studied them with an attention 
which few of them had inspired before. He had 


9i 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


learnt many things, besides where the roses grew, 
from hearing them talk — perhaps, chiefly, that au- 
dacity was even a stronger weapon than he had 
understood. He had learned not to make spas- 
modic strokes when he was out of his depth in con- 
versation, but to maintain silence, and look bored; 
he had learnt that the man who has the self-posses- 
sion to look bored, instead of embarrassed, in such 
circumstances can embarrass the conversational- 
ists, and retire from the group with honours. 

Lady Wrensfordsley had spent a few days at 
Whichcote early in April, and then gone to town. 
She had taken a furnished house in Chapel Street — 
now Aldford Street — Mayfair. Maurice had al- 
ready left Oakenhurst when she returned to Eng- 
land, but a card from her had come to his chambers 
soon afterwards, and Sir Noel, who was well aware 
of it, had asked him more than once if he had called 
upon her, or seen her and her daughter anywhere 
else. He had neither called nor met them; and in 
deference to the old man’s wishes he decided to do 
his duty without further delay. 

Lady Wrensfordsley was at home, he heard; and 
he found her alone when he was announced. She 
was a younger woman than he had pictured her 
— barely fifty — and Time, with its customary 
unfairness, had treated her with the generosity 
which it never displays but to those whom nature 


92 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


has already favoured. If she still mourned for her 
lost youth, it was known only to herself; and to the 
world to-day she appeared to find her flirtation 
with middle-age a charming substitute. 

“Em very glad to see you, Mr. Jardine,” she said. 

He murmured something about his regret at 
having missed her when she last called at the 
Court. 

“How is Sir Noel?” she inquired. 

“My father is very well, thanks,” he said. “He 
wished to be remembered to you, only he wished 
it much more gracefully than I have given his mes- 
sage.” 

“Your father and I are great friends,” she said; 
“my one complaint about him is that he doesn’t 
come to see us often enough. But, of course, he 
says he is an invalid — though I’m sure I don’t see 
any signs of it — so one has to forgive him. You 
take tea, don’t you?” 

The tea-things were on the table, and he said he 
did. 

“I think it’s very nice to see men take tea,” she 
said, dropping in the second lump of sugar; “it 
seems to bring them so much nearer to us. And 
they never used to!” 

“Women are civilizing us by degrees,” he haz- 
arded. 

“Civilization being typified by the teapot! Well, 


93 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


that’s quite true. How right the French were to 
make ‘civilization’ and the ‘teapot’ both feminine! 
Cream?” 

“Thank you,” he said. 

The door had opened, and a girl crossed the 
room slowly. She was tall, and very pale; in his 
momentary impression of her all the colour of her 
face seemed to be concentrated in her beautiful 
lips, and the depths of her unregarding eyes. She 
was more than “lovely” — he remembered on a sud- 
den that Sir Noel had used the word in speaking 
of her, but now that he looked at her, it sounded 
insignificant to him. As he watched her move to- 
wards them he was sensible that when a poem had 
stimulated his imagination of an aristocrat — of a 
girl whose freshness and bearing were instinct with 
race — it had been the vague image of such a one as 
this that stirred his thoughts. 

Lady Wrensfordsley turned her head now. He 
could see no space to set down his teacup, and, as 
he rose, it lurched in the saucer perilously. 

The girl’s voice was low and clear, as he had felt 
sure it would be. The effect she had on him was at 
once pleasurable and the reverse. He was filled 
with a quick desire to rouse her interest, but he 
had never felt more awkward, and for fully a min- 
ute after the introduction he could think of nothing 
to say to her, nor to her mother in her presence. 


94 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“Tea, Helen?” 

“Please,” she said. 

“I was just saying to Mr. Jardine that the teapot 
typified civilization,” said Lady Wrensfordsley; 
“or perhaps Mr. Jardine was saying it to me — I 
don’t know that it matters — or that it’s a fact. The 
point is that it never struck me to think so till. now, 
and I shall drink tea the last thing at night without 
scruples any more.” 

“Do you drink tea the last thing at night?” asked 
Maurice, painfully conscious that he was uttering 
an ineptitude. 

“It was very wrong of you to tell my mother 
anything of the kind, Mr. Jardine,” said the girl 
composedly; “now she will drink two cups instead 
of one. Are the buns hot, mother?” 

“They are supposed to be hot,” said Lady 
Wrensfordsley; “Mr. Jardine can tell you, if he is 
not too polite to be sincere.” 

“They are very good,” he said lifting the dish. 
“May I ?” 

“Thanks,” said the girl; “can’t you assure us that 
buns are distinguished, too? We have a passion 
for buns; we are constant to them even in the sum- 
mer, and if they were only the type of something 
we should be happier.” 

Her own aplomb intensified his discomfiture, and 
it was as if his unfortunate reference to civilization 


95 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


had woven a net from which he could not escape. 
He began to feel that he was looking a fool, but 
amid buns and tea his mind was benumbed, and an 
idea seemed as far away from him as did the girl 
herself. 

He was grateful that at this moment the footman 
announced Lady and Miss Savile, but before long 
his relief gave place to a new feeling of irritation. 
The visitors were evidently on terms of intimacy 
here, and after a few minutes Agatha Savile had 
fixed her large, inquiring eyes upon him, and, for 
the time, at least, made him her own. He had 
primarily welcomed the opportunity for showing 
that he was less stupid than he had been suggest- 
ing, but now, since the others no longer listened, 
he was annoyed as much by his recovered fluency 
as by the young woman’s proprietorial air. He 
was conscious that he himself was lending colour to 
her assumption of a mutual understanding; and 
perceiving himself incompetent to efface this im- 
pression without rudeness, his resentment against 
her increased. 

The angle at which Lady Savile held her cup, 
however, at last assured him that it was empty, 
and he promptly seized the chance it afforded him 
to shift his position. His gaze was now enabled to 
take the direction of his thoughts. 

96 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“When do you go back to Whichcote, Lady 
Helen?” he asked. 

“After Goodwood,” she said. “The season is 
very nearly over, isn’t it!” 

“Are you sorry?” 

“No; I am very fond of Whichcote. There is 
always an attraction about one’s home, don’t you 
think so?” 

“My own home is so new to me that I can only 
guess,” answered Maurice. “All the same, I can 
guess very well.” 

“You have travelled a great deal,” she said, 
“haven’t you?” 

“Yes, for years. I have spent half my life 
abroad.” 

“It must be very fascinating,” she said. “I 
should love to travel.” 

“Though home is so dear to you?” 

“Oh, but home is never so dear as when one re- 
turns to it, you know. I was, somehow or other, 
very dull at Whichcote last winter, but when we 
came back from Algiers, the few days we spent in 
Oakenhurst were delightful to me. I think if this 
house hadn’t been taken, I should have begged to 
stay there, and wanted to forego the season alto- 
gether.” 

“I am glad you didn’t,” he said, “or I should 
hardly have met you so soon.” 

97 


r 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“You have been in Oakenhurst very little, I un- 
derstand,” she returned. “To me, of course, it has 
the charm of association; my childhood was passed 
there.” 

The word stirred his mind with a wish that he 
had known her in her childhood — with the enor- 
mous difficulty of imagining her as a child. He 
wanted to say something of it, but the instant in 
which it could be said naturally had gone while he 
hesitated, so, instead, he had recourse to a plati- 
tude, and murmured: 

“One’s childhood is one’s happiest time.” 

This commonplace, which was rendered even 
triter by his disgust of it, found its way to Miss 
Savile. 

“Do you think so?” she said. “Do you? You 
don’t f” 

“I think so, indeed,” he said; “my own was de- 
cidedly the happiest part of my life.” 

“How sweet!” said Miss Savile. “Now, I was 
such a shocking little pickle that I was always be- 
ing punished. Wasn’t I, Helen?” 

The girl s attention, however, had strayed. It 
had just been remarked that somebody’s death was 
a most merciful release for his widow, and Lady 
Wrensfordsley was asking to be reminded to write 
a letter of condolence to her before they went out. 

Maurice rose and made his adieux. The mem- 


98 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


ory of the room, and the knowledge that he had 
never appeared to less advantage, lingered in his 
brain with almost painful vividness. He was de- 
pressed, and the depression, which was out of all 
proportion to the cause, deepened as he walked. 
He recalled his engagement for the evening with 
distaste, and suddenly his life looked to him as 
empty as he had found the period at Croft Court 
while he hungered for town. It revealed itself to 
him that in the whole world there was not a soul 
who cared for him, excepting perhaps the old man 
whose affection he held by deceit. He felt lonely 
and miserable. A passionate desire for sympathy 
possessed him, though he could not have put his 
sorrow into words. He wanted to feel the touch 
of a woman who understood; he ached for a 
woman’s comprehension of a mood which he but 
dimly comprehended himself. 


99 


CHAPTER VII. 


He had been considering where he should go 
when town began to empty, and had inclined to- 
wards Trouville, where there would be several fas- 
cinating people of his acquaintance, but when the 
Cowes week was over, he went instead to Oaken- 
hurst. The life he was leading had recently filled 
him with self-contempt, and a longing had sprung 
up within him to be done with it all. He could not 
but be aware that the healthier frame of mind was 
due to the occasional meetings he had had with a 
girl whose air of fastidious purity had caused him 
to feel ashamed of himself; but he shirked the per- 
ception that the force which took him to the Court 
was the wish that their meetings should continue. 

He had not, during the last fortnight, failed to 
tell himself that in casting the roses away for the 
sake of beholding the lily he was renouncing the 
substance for the shadow, for of a surety nobody 
could be less interested in his proceedings than 
was she. In whatever degree of unworthiness he 
might stand beside her, he realized that he would 
be a stranger to her. But the admiration she 


IOC 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


awoke in him was not diminished by the conscious- 
ness that he was forgotten as soon as his back was 
turned; nor since his visit to Chapel Street had he 
refused an invitation to a house where he hoped to 
see her, because he knew that she would never 
remark his absence. 

God made Woman last, and she is the best of 
His works. The girl was not twenty-five: she had 
never spoken to Maurice a word that sufficed to 
distinguish her from the well-bred crowd in which 
she moved; no glimpse of her soul had been vouch- 
safed to him save that which every virtuous woman 
who has beauty shows in her gaze to every man 
who has imagination; yet she had lifted him from 
the mire without effort, and without will. 

In Oakenhurst, as was natural, he saw her often, 
and his knowledge grew of how much their vapid 
conversations meant to him; the knowledge grew 
that, though she might be silent, she held him by 
her presence. The poise of her head, the curve of 
her cheek, the folds of her dress, all these things 
stole into his being. Fancy was much kinder to 
him than she, and sometimes in his reveries he 
talked to her as freely as he could ever hope to 
talk to anyone now. Actually he progressed very 
slowly in her good graces, and though he dared 
to seek no more than her friendship, her reserve 
humiliated him. 

xoi 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


One day he admitted something like it. He had 
lunched at Whichcote, and for a few minutes he 
found himself alone with her in the garden. He 
had never felt further from her than during the 
last half-hour; it had been almost as if they had 
met for the first time. 

“I can’t explain it,” he murmured; he was speak- 
ing as much to himself as to her. 

Her eyes wandered to him in mute interrogation; 
the interrogation of politeness which was the most 
he had ever roused in her. 

“I can’t explain why I find so little to say to 
you. It’s an odd confession, isn’t it? — not the sort 
of confession a tactful man would make. But it 
doesn’t matter, because you know I find little to 
say, whether I confess it or not. I wonder if I 
may ask you something?” 

“Why not?” she said. “What is it you want to 
ask, Mr. Jardine?” 

“The inquiry is even blunter than the confession. 
I want to ask if you dislike me?” 

“Dislike you!” she said. She lifted her brows. 
“Why should I dislike you? What a preposterous 
idea!” 

“What an uncouth question, you mean!” said 
Maurice. “And that’s just the point— I feel myself 
'uncouth’ when I come near you. Pray don’t mis- 
take me — you are all that is gracious — but I have 


102 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


an uncomfortable sensation that, whatever I do, 
you find it wrong.” 

“Have I suggested,” she said, “that you do 
wrong? It was exceedingly rude of me if I have. 
I ought to apologize to you.” 

“Take me seriously,” he begged. “You know 
very well that if you owed me an apology! couldn’t 
have said what I did. But you do suggest that I 
do wrong. Unconsciously, your eyes suggested it 
just now, when you turned to me; your voice sug- 
gests it sometimes when you answer. You typify 
a world that I’m very new to, Lady Helen, and you 
make me feel that I shall be a stranger in it as 
long as I live.” 

“I am sorry,” she said, after a pause. “I am 
afraid my manner must be unfortunate, for I needn’t 
tell you it isn’t intentional. You have reminded 
me of what a woman once said to me. When we 
had become great friends, she said, ‘Until I knew 
you well, you always gave me the feeling that my 
frock didn’t fit.’ I assure you that I am really a 
very natural girl, and that if I thought I had affec- 
tations, I should hate myself.” 

“You haven’t,” said Maurice. “To be what you 
are is, I know, as natural to you as to breathe; that 
is why I strike you as uncouth.” 

“You keep insisting,” she returned, “on a word 
that is the very last one I should have thought of 


103 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

using, and it is more than absurd of you. Nor do 
I know even now what my fault actually is.” 

“You, too, have used a wrong word,” he said. 
“Whether my choice of ‘uncouth’ was good or bad, 
there can certainly be no question of my pain being 
your ‘fault.’ I suppose the fact is that I am not so 
quick as I thought I was. We all have our vanities 
— mine is the belief that I acquire very readily. Of 
late I have set myself to acquire a great many 
things. I needn’t explain that my life hasn’t been 
passed in society, because you are perfectly aware 
of it. I went abroad when I was very young, and 
I had to work for my living with my gloves off. 
If you had been in New York, Lady Helen, or in 
Melbourne, or any other city that I’ve known, I 
should have been as far removed from the chance 
of being presented to you as is the poorest man in 
London now. Well, as I say, I determined to pick 
up all that I knew I lacked; and to some extent, un- 
til I met you, I thought I had succeeded. Perhaps 
you have merely shown me how far one may de- 
ceive oneself, and the truth hurts a bit.” 

She did not reply at once; she sat looking beyond 
hervin a little perplexed silence. When she broke 
it her tone sounded friendlier in his ears. 

“You have been very frank; I feel very honoured 
that you have spoken so frankly to me — I won’t 
insult you by pretending to misunderstand what 


104 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


you said. You mean that the life you are leading 
is unfamiliar as yet; but because it’s unfamiliar I 
think you are inclined to imagine that it’s evident 
to all the world that you find it so. I am not ex- 
pressing myself very well — or, rather, I am only 
expressing half of what is in my mind to say — but 
you must surely understand that one is judged su- 
perficially; I think even by our dearest we are only 
judged superficially. Certainly our acquaintances 
don’t look below the surface. For instance, you 
and I meet often,” she went on with a quiet smile, 
“but, as you just told me, you regard me as a much 
more classical person than I am. In the same way, 
your deficiencies are much clearer to yourself than 
to your neighbours; if we don’t perceive all your 
virtues we miss a great many of your faults.” 

“Faults,” said Maurice; “yes, but deficiencies — I 
doubt it! My deficiencies limit my allusions. We 
come back to our starting point — I have very little 
to say to you.” 

“I think,” she said, “that in the last five minutes 
you have found a good deal!” 

“I have prosed, I have talked about myself. I 
would much rather have had the ability to talk 
about you.” 

“If you had done that,” she said, more formally, 
“I’m afraid we should both have been bored. As 
it is, I have been very interested.” 

105 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“You said one thing that especially interested 
me,” replied Maurice, in a quick effort to recover 
the lost ground. “You said that we were judged 
superficially even by our dearest. Do you think 
that is true?” 

“I think so,” she said, slowly. “Yes; I think 
everyone must be conscious of a self that she is a 
little shy of; and there's a difficulty about making 
it known to others even when she wants to. Some 
clever man — I don’t know who, because I am ex- 
tremely ill-informed — wrote that words were given 
us to conceal our thoughts. It has often seemed 
to me that they do that even when we desire most 
intensely that they should express them.” 

Before he could answer, Lady Wrensfordsley’s 
voice was heard; and she made her reappearance in 
the company of a young man of perhaps eight or 
nine and twenty, whom Helen welcomed as 
“Bobbie.” 

“I don’t know if you’ve met Mr. Seymour, Mr. 
Jardine?” said Lady Wrensfordsley. “He’s my 
nephew; it’s quite the only recommendation he 
has.” 

Bobbie Seymour smiled pleasantly, and put out 
his hand. He had also, Maurice thought, the 
recommendation of good looks. He was well- 
built, and well-dressed, and well-mannered; the 


106 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


sort of young man who knows such charming 
women in “Punch.” 

“How do you do?” he said. “You won’t ac- 
cept that as final, will you? I come to my aunt for 
advice, but never for a character.” 

“You may come for advice,” said she, “but you 
never take it. Mr. Seymour is an ornament of the 
War Office, Mr. Jardine. I have never understood 
what they do in the War Office — that was why I 
was glad when he went into it — but, as well as I 
can make out, the duties consist entirely of apply- 
ing for ‘leave.’ ” 

“Poor Bobbie!” exclaimed the girl, gayly. “And 
he’s quite convinced he’s overworked! Aren’t 
you?” 

“Awful shame,” he said, with another of his 
pleasant smiles, “to talk such bosh, Aunt Sophy. 
We are kept at it frightfully hard, I can tell you. 
How’s Pip?” he inquired of his cousin. 

“Pip’s cured,” she said. “He is back again, and 
in the best of health and spirits.” 

“Bravo, Pip! I think I’ll go and have a look at 
him. Will you come?” 

“Yes,” she said, carelessly; “if you’re so inter- 
ested, I don’t mind.” 

“Bobbie is always interested when the trouble is 
over,” said Lady Wrensfordsley. “While Pip was 

ioy 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


ill, the only suggestion Bobbie had to make was, 
‘Send him to a vet.’!” 

“Well, you’ve found out how good it was!” said 
the young man — he had joined in the laugh against 
himself genially enough. As he sauntered beside 
the girl across the lawn, Maurice could see that her 
face was turned to him as if he continued to amuse 
her. Since his advent the garden had looked less 
sunny to Maurice, and the new sense of intimacy 
that had begun to tingle in his veins seemed to have 
received a sudden check. The shadow on his coun- 
tenance was not lost upon Lady Wrensfordsley, and 
she contemplated him with cordial eyes. 


108 


CHAPTER VIII. 


If Helen had remained single until the age of 
twenty-five, or its neighbourhood, it had not been 
for the lack of offers. This, of course, is a cliche 
used about every girl who has passed her second 
season, but several of the offers made to Helen had 
had her mother's warm approval. No attempt had 
ever been made to force her inclinations, however, 
and when she had declared that the idea was dis- 
tasteful to her, the matter had always been allowed 
to drop. 

She was Lady Wrensfordsley’s only child, and 
although neither woman perfectly understood the 
other, the bond between them was a very strong 
one. The old Earl had been a good fellow, and a 
bad husband. He had led a very fast existence on 
the turf, and lost large sums of money at Monte 
Carlo; he had also lost large sums of money at 
Ostend and various Belgian resorts, where the au- 
thorities met his views. His career had been as 
rapid as “Hare and Hounds,” and, as the “hare,” 
he had always dropped expensive paper in his trail. 
The title had died with him, and Lady Wrensfords- 


109 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


ley, who was in possession of about four thousand a 
year, had her secret memories of “poor George,” 
which rendered her diffident of playing the part 
of Heaven in connection with her daughter’s mar- 
riage. 

None the less she desired that Heaven should 
make it to her own satisfaction, and the gloom that 
she had observed on Maurice’s face would have 
gratified her even more if she could have detected 
some encouragement in the girl’s. No prospect of 
seeing her so advantageously settled had ever oc- 
curred as that which had latterly been opened by 
his obvious admiration, and the mother would have 
been less than a mother, and more than human, if 
she had not nursed hopes of his proposing. 

Nor were her hopes unshared by Sir Noel. He 
was old; the name and the place meant a great deal 
to him; he would have liked much to see Maurice 
marry and to pat a grandson on the cheek before 
he died. The wish that his son should fall in love 
with Lady Helen had even formed in his mind be- 
fore the impostor’s return from South Africa, and 
the delay in meeting had irritated him more than 
Maurice had perceived. In the summer, the at- 
traction that Whichcote evidently exercised had 
raised his spirits not a little, but when August and 
September had passed, and no signs of progress 
were to be discerned, he began to grow impatient. 

no 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“Philip,” he said one night, as they sat together, 
“you ought to marry.” 

“To marry!” echoed Maurice; “what has put that 
idea into your head? I am not a marrying man.” 

“But you must be a marrying man; it is required 
of you — you have obligations that you can’t shirk. 
It is not as if you were nineteen; you have come 
to an age when you have duties. You always op- 
pose things; it annoys me very much in you! You 
ought to stand for some constituency — you object 
to that! You ought to take a wife — you object 
to that! It appears to me that you object to every- 
thing that is essential.” 

“In other words, I’m a failure?” said Maurice, 
with a nervous laugh; “be patient with me, gov- 
ernor!” 

Chagrin struggled with affection in the old man’s 
regard: 

“You are not a failure, and you know that I am 
proud of you. I have not said much, but you can 
see! You know very well that it has cheered me 
up a great deal to have you with me, and — and I 
understand things; I appreciated your coming to 
me so often from town, and neglecting your pleas- 
ures for the sake of your father; you would not 
have done so once! Well, well, well, it is not to 
praise you that I have begun to talk — I am very 
vexed! I say it is not as if you were nineteen, or as 


hi 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

if I might live for many years; it will not be long 
before I am gone.” 

"For Heaven’s sake,” said Maurice, “leave that 
out! You may live for twenty years more, and I 
hope you will. You have given me everything that 
I wanted— every desire I had you have fulfilled; 
your death would give me nothing excepting pain, 
and every time you refer to it you hurt me a damned 
sight more than you know. Keep to me: you ask 
me to go into the House; well, I haven’t the ability, 
I couldn’t do it if I wanted to — it’s out of my line. 
If I had it in me to become a distinguished man, 
I’d fag at anything you choose to please you. Be- 
lieve me, it’s true! You ask me to marry: I dare 
say that to answer T’m not a marrying man’ doesn’t 
explain as much as it means. I’ll only say that I 
haven’t been home a year yet; my — my liberty, with 
the means to enjoy it, is new to me.” 

“Your liberty? That was all right when you 
were in town! But his liberty cannot mean much 
to a man who lives as you do now. I have not once 
heard you say that you think of going away 
from me, and you have been here nearly three 
months. The means to enjoy your liberty, it seems 
to me, was a privilege you got tired of very soon. 
If you value it so highly, why do you stop?” 

“Why do I stop? Well, why does everybody 


112 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


stop? There are plenty of men down here at the 
present time.” 

“Be frank with me,” said Sir Noel; “you can 
make me very happy. You are very often at 
Whichcote; shall I see you marry that girl one 
day?” 

“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Maurice; “no!” 
The colour sank from his face, and the cigar be- 
tween his fingers shook. 

He had dealt a heavier blow than he understood, 
and for some seconds there was silence. At last 
the other said, simply: 

“Why?” 

“ ‘Why’! There are a thousand reasons. One is 
enough — I am nothing to her.” 

Into the old man’s tones crept a tinge of restored 
hope: “But if she were willing to accept you?” he 
asked. 

“Why consider impossibilities? I tell you that 
I am nothing to her — nothing! If she cares for 
anyone at all, it is for her cousin, who is always 
running down here; but it’s difficult to say! After 
all, he is only her cousin.” 

“You can offer a very fine position, Philip, and 
she is not a child. ... If she were willing to 
accept you?” 

“She would never sell herself to anybody; you 
don’t know her!” 

ii 3 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

“To sell? You are not a Bluebeard! And she 
has a mother to advise her. You— you cannot fail 
to admire her? You like her?” 

‘She is very beautiful,” said Maurice, unsteadily. 

“Then what is your objection? You tell me 
there are a thousand reasons, but I only hear one, 
and that is very foolish. She is not in love with 
you, you say? Well, you ought to know! But 
there are many marriages made for other things 
than love; women marry for an establishment, for 
esteem; life is not a romance. Besides, I do not 
think she is a girl to fall violently in love with any- 
one.” 

“Don’t you?” said Maurice; “I can imagine her 
loving very deeply — when she meets the right man. 
But the subject is preposterous; I’m as likely to be 
Prime Minister as to marry her.” 

“Why, why, why?” cried Sir Noel, angrily; “you 
may say you are unlikely to marry her when you 
have proposed and been rejected. Wait till you are 
rejected before you disappoint me in this, too! I 
have thought of it for a long time ; I have not many 
hopes in my life, but I have hoped to see you with a 
son. You — you refuse everything I ask you; I 
was ambitious for you to make a public career, and 
you refused me. But you said just now that you 
would do it if you could, and I believed you meant 
it. Well, I ask you something else! There is 
1 14 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


nothing to prevent your gratifying me in this ; it is 
no terrible sacrifice to take such a woman for your 
wife. You are a constant visitor; you have led the 
mother to think you have intentions; will you 
propose?” 

“I can’t!” said Maurice. “Don’t — I beg you, sir 
— don’t make a personal matter of it; it can’t be 
done!” 

“You are obstinate,” said the old man; “you are 
— you are very hard. And you have behaved very 
badly; Lady Wrensfordsley will consider you have 
behaved very badly. Well, she will be justified! 
We will not talk about it any more.” He tapped 
the arm of his chair rapidly, and rose. “You have 
distressed me cruelly. I am going to my room.” 

Maurice was still very white; to be left alone was 
a great relief to him, though his thoughts could 
take no agreeable turn. Obedience was beyond 
him, but this was the first difference that had arisen 
between Sir Noel and himself, and he realized that 
he must appear a dogged fool. Perhaps the emo- 
tions that the girl woke in him caused him to sym- 
pathize with the disappointment he had inflicted 
more acutely than he would have done otherwise. 
For an instant he revolved the idea of paying a 
fraction of what he owed by proposing, with the 
conviction that the offer would be declined; but 
then he shrank from it as an insult to the woman 

115 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

lie honoured most. Moreover, a single act of com- 
pliance wouldn’t solve the difficulty: doubtless he 
would be required later on to propose to some 
other woman, who might accept him! 

The assertion that he had given Lady Wrens- 
fordsley cause to feel aggrieved kept recurring to 
him with dismay, but on reflection he was assured 
that her daughter’s manner, even more than his 
own, must render it impossible she should enter- 
tain the supposition attributed to her. Neverthe- 
less, he had been unwise — he saw that now — and 
he would go to Whichcote less frequently; it might 
be well that Sir Noel had warned him! 

The following morning he was met by the bar- 
onet with considerable restraint, and, had he been 
less conciliatory, the breach between them would 
have widened. As it was, they spoke together by 
dinner-time with some semblance of freedom, but 
neither on that day, nor the next, was an opportun- 
ity afforded him for the usual reading, and it was 
evident to him that his obduracy had been taken 
deeply to heart. 

He began to think of returning to town. As the 
other had said, there had been little to keep him 
here, and now there was less than ever; but though 
he always meditated leaving on the morrow, he 
could never bring himself to do it. 

He would not go to Whichcote for a fortnight; 

116 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

but Oakenhurst held the chance of meeting her! 
It was only now, when he would not allow himself 
to visit her, when he walked, or rode, praying for 
the sight of the familiar livery, and returned to the 
Court with the new-found hope that she and Lady 
Wrensfordsley might have called; when he ac- 
cepted an invitation to one of the neighbours’, and 
counted the moments until release because she, 
too, was not there, that the full measure of the 
influence she had attained upon him made itself 
clear. When a week had worn by, it seemed to 
Maurice that he had borne the separation for a 
month. The eternal roads, in which the carriage 
never appeared, were as insufferable as the house 
in which he spent hours listening for the sound of 
the hall-door bell. Imagination, which showed her 
to him in a dozen familiar scenes, made him ache 
more fiercely for her presence. In moments lunch 
stuck in his throat, while there flashed before him 
the dining-room at Whichcote, and he was seized 
with the impulse to pitch his resolution to the 
winds; in others, he was humiliated to feel that, 
while an entire week had passed since he had been 
there, he was not missed. He loved her; the truth 
was vivid, and he knew it. He was as far below 
her as the gutter from the star, but he loved her! 
Cravings came to him sometimes, boyish and wild; 
cravings for an opportunity to prove it to her; to 


n 7 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


break through her indifference by some heroic ser- 
vice; toidie for her, if necessary, only that he might 
leap into her life for a moment, and see her under- 
stand. Of all the complications his fancy had fore- 
casted on the homeward voyage, not one had hap- 
pened; he was stabbed by a thing that had never 
presented itself to him among the possibilities: he 
loved. He could not blink at facts any more, he 
could no longer juggle with terms — he loved her 
as a man loves the woman who holds the world for 
him; and now that he realized it he would leave 
Oakenhurst at once. 

It was no compromise with duty that he rode 
over to “Whichcote” to say “good-by”; he did not 
intend to see the woman again until he was master 
of himself, and to have omitted a leave-taking 
would, in the circumstances, have been flagrant 
rudeness. 

The man told him that Lady Wrensfordsley was 
driving, and when he learnt in the next instant that 
Helen was in, his heart swelled at the prospect of 
seeing her alone. 

Nor was he disappointed by finding visitors, 
though a tete-a-tete promised him a happiness 
empty enough. She was arranging some flowers 
in a bowl, and he took a seat by the fire, and 
watched her hands. 

“My mother has gone to the Saviles’,” she said; 

118 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“it is almost time she was home now. She wanted 
me to go, too, but I was lazy. Aren’t these flowers 
pretty?” 

“Yes,” he said, “very pretty. I like the way you 
pull some of them up higher than the rest. Do 
they touch the water that way?” 

“Oh, yes, they touch the water,” she said. “I 
leave the stalks longer on purpose. Is it cold out?” 

“Yes, no,” he said, “no. Where are you going to 
put it now it’s done?” 

“On the book-case,” she said. She moved the 
bowl carefully, and wiped her hands on her hand- 
kerchief, and sat down. “Well?” 

“Well,” he said; “talk to me!” 

“What do you want to talk about?” she smiled. 

“Anything!” 

“That’s too vague.” 

“Anything you please. How long do you stay 
here — till the spring, or do you go South?” 

“We may go to Cannes for a few weeks after 
Christmas, but I don’t know that we shall. We go 
to town for the season, of course.” 

“Do you look forward to it?” 

“I always look forward to amusement. Does it 
sound very frivolous of me?” 

“I don’t think you could be frivolous if you tried; 
you don’t look frivolous even when you arrange 
flowers.” 

119 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“Oh, to arrange the flowers, 1 ” she said, “is a sol- 
emn duty; you’d say so if you saw how the servants 
do it!” 

“Then, I suppose,” said Maurice, after a slight 
pause, “I shan’t see you till we meet in town. I’m 
going away to-morrow.” 

“Are you?” she said; “I suppose you won’t then.” 

“Even if I see you in town.” 

“Oh, one is bound to meet one’s friends in the 
season.” 

“I may not be there in the season,” he said; “per- 
haps I shall go abroad again for a while.” 

“Really? You are tired of England already?” 

“No, I’m not tired of it, but it’s best for me to 
go.” He looked away from her, calling himself a 
coward. 

“Where do you think of going?” she inquired. 

“I don’t know, I haven’t thought yet — some- 
where where I haven’t been.” 

“You should try India. I should think it must 
be immensely fascinating — and you could make 
sketches, or shoot things. Men generally prefer 
to shoot things, don’t they?” 

“I suppose, on the whole, it’s easier,” he said. 

“And then you could send us a tiger-skin, if the 
tiger would let you. Only, if he doesn’t, please 
don’t reproach me for the suggestion!” 

“Should you mind?” asked Maurice. 

120 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“Mind?” 

He found rebuke in the monosyllable. 

“I mean assuming the tragedy with the tiger!” 

“I should mind very much/’ she said calmly; 
“wouldn’t you?” 

“And yet there are worse fates than an unlooked 
for death.” 

“Worse?” 

“Far! I could die pluckily enough, I think — 
death is such a short affair. It’s life that is the test 
of heroes.” 

“How seriously you say that,” she said; “do you 
know you sometimes say things like nobody else, 
Mr. Jardine?” 

“I told you long ago that I hadn’t learnt how to 
talk to you yet. . . . Well, then, I had better 

not go and 'shoot things’? And if I am fortunate, 
I shall meet you in town after all?” 

“No doubt,” she said. “How quickly we are 
travelling — we have got from India to Mayfair al- 
ready! Here’s my mother!” 

Lady Wrensfordsley came in well pleased to find 
that Maurice was there, and only a woman would 
have read her regret in her eyes when his plans 
were made known to her. For a few seconds she 
questioned if they had been born of the interview 
she had interrupted, and, deciding that they had 
not, she was perplexed. Maurice, who, despite the 


121 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


conclusion at which he had arrived, had been sen- 
sible of some slight apprehension, was entirely re- 
lieved by her manner. 

The wrench had been made, but the pain of it 
lingered. Nor could the idea of going abroad be 
dismissed from his mind as easily as he had dis- 
missed the subject from the conversation. He knew 
perfectly that he would be as unwise to meet Helen 
in six months' time as to continue their meetings 
now; and if he remained in England through the 
next season, he would be powerless to resist his 
opportunities. However, he had taken the right 
course, and done all that was necessary at present. 
Having said what he had said, he could avoid her 
for a year or more if he chose. 


122 


CHAPTER IX. 


Sir Noel had offered no opposition to the pro- 
posed departure, nor indeed made any comment on 
it; only in the moment of good-by he looked at 
Maurice wistfully. The appeal was involuntary, 
and Maurice understood it to be so. It came back 
to him, among other things, as he sat alone in the 
chambers that he had formerly viewed with elation. 
He did not want to see anyone yet; his solitude was 
dreary enough, but he felt that he would be in- 
finitely lonelier in a crowd. He could not even 
pretend to laugh at himself as a sentimentalist. 
Whether the contingency that he had overlooked 
could be called absurd or not, the thought of Helen 
dominated him. He would have given up every- 
thing that he had gained if the renunciation would 
have placed her in his arms. He did not for a 
second undervalue the advantages he had won — he 
was human; but, being human, he found wealth a 
poor makeshift for the woman he loved. He had 
grasped all that he had sought, and it was insuffi- 
cient for happiness. The fancy did not strike him — 
and the moral was imperfect — but he resembled the 


123 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


protagonist of the fantastic who is accorded his 
heart’s desire, and whose hasty petition has omit- 
ted the chief essential for contentment. 

He had been back in town several days when he 
did what was required of him by calling upon Rosa 
Fleming. He had received a note from her beg- 
ging him to oblige her with a loan of fifty pounds, 
for her resolution not to worry him for introduc- 
tions did not prevent her worrying him for assist- 
ance when she found her income inadequate, and 
he took the cheque in his pocket. 

“I thought I was never going to see you any 
more,” she said. “I have missed you awfully! 
What a long time you stayed down there! Have 
you enjoyed yourself?” 

“It wasn’t particularly gay,” he answered. “Well, 
how have you been? I’ve brought you what you 
want.” 

“What a good fellow you are! I was sorry to 
bother you again, but this rent is always due; and 
then I had to go out of town, and the hotel was 
very dear — everything seems to cost more than it 
ought to! You can stop what I owe you out of 
my next quarter’s money, you know.” 

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said; “don’t talk about 
that. Where did you go? Eastbourne, wasn’t it?” 

“Yes— what a pretty, dismal place! I shouldn’t 
have gone away at all if you had come back, but I 


124 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


was so melancholy in London all by myself. What 
do you say to this?” She laughed, and took a box 
of cigars out of the sideboard; “the last time you 
came you had nothing to smoke; do you remember? 
You never need look at your cigar-case any more 
before you come — you’re provided for!” 

“Thanks,” said Maurice; “it’s very kind of you. 
“I’ll have one now.” 

“Do! I think they’re all right; I used to know 
a little about cigars. Well, what’s the news? It’s 
jolly to see you again. How is Sir Noel?” 

“Sir Noel is quite well,” he replied, lamely. 

“You’ve not been quarrelling with him?” she ex- 
claimed. “There isn’t anything wrong?” 

“Why should you think so? Did it sound like 
it?” 

“Tell me!” she said; “I thought by your face 
when you came in that something was the matter. 
What is it — anything important?” 

Maurice shook his head. “They are very good, 
your cigars. Your attention is appreciated.” 

“Never mind my cigars; I want to know what 
is troubling you. Is he talking about your going 
into Parliament again? Is that it?” 

“No,” said Maurice, “that isn’t it. He wants 
something else now — something more difficult 
still.” 

“Well, then, tell me all about it. Who is to hear 


125 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


your anxieties, if I don’t? You’re not afraid of 
boring me, are you?” 

“Perhaps I am. Anyhow it’s all over; it’s not 
worth discussing.” 

“Don’t be unkind,” she said. “I can’t gush — I’m 
not made that way — but your anxieties are mine, 
too. I don’t mean your risks; I mean what I say, 
your anxieties. It’s so queer to me sometimes to 
think that a year ago we didn’t know each other 
much — things have brought us very close together 
since! You’re a peg low; I’m going to give you a 
drink first of all, and then I’ll have a cigarette with 
you, and we’ll put our heads together. It will 
cheer you up to be with someone you can talk 
freely to.” 

She rang the bell, and a parlour-maid in a frilled 
cap and apron brought what was wanted, and said, 
“Yes, madam,” and “No, madam,” in a hushed 
voice. The sight of Rosa with a parlour-maid re- 
tained its novelty to Maurice, and a little amuse- 
ment crept into his eyes as he looked on. It was 
quite the last feeling that she meant her dignity to 
rouse in him. 

So the old man has been making himself a nui- 
sance?” she said, when they were alone again. “Eve 
often thought of you down there, and wondered 
how you stood it! What does he want? Perhaps 
126 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


it isn’t so difficult as it seems — we may be able to 
get over it.” 

Maurice watched a smoke-ring meditatively. 
After all, there was no reason for reticence. He 
was averse from speaking Helen’s name to her, but 
her tone warmed him towards her, and he was 
athirst for somebody to sympathize with him. 

“He wants me to marry,” he said. 

She could not restrain a start. 

“To marry?” 

“Of course it’s impossible, and my refusal ruf- 
fled him.” 

“Why?” she said, after a long pause; “I mean 
— I mean, why did you refuse?” 

“Good Heavens!” he cried; “how could I con- 
sent? I’m not such a blackguard as that!” 

“No,” she said; “no, of course you couldn’t — I 
see! You could never marry any woman who — 
who was ignorant of what you’d done, could you? 
What did you say?” 

“I told him that I didn’t want to marry her — 
that I preferred my freedom.” 

“Her!” She caught the pronoun up. “He has 
somebody in his mind, then? He wants you to 
marry a certain woman. Who is she?” 

“What’s the difference? One woman or another 
— I can’t marry anybody!” 

The colour was leaving her face rapidly. If he 


127 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

had not been seeing Helen’s, he would have re- 
marked the change. 

“Is- that all?” she asked, harshly. 

“That’s about all,” murmured Maurice. 

She began to laugh. “Why don’t you tell me 
the whole story? Do you think I’m a fool? You’re 
in love with her — I thought the old man’s wish 
wasn’t enough to break you up like that! You’re 
in love with her, eh? Well” — she struggled to 
get the friendliness back into her manner — “well, 
I’m awfully sorry for you, old boy, awfully sorry. 
It’s hard lines.” 

“It’s damned hard lines,” said the man, blind to 
her agitation. 

“She’s a swell, of course. Who is she?” 

“Yes,” he said, “she’s a ‘swell.’ But, as I tell 
you, “it’s all over. Heaven knows when I shall 
see her again — not till she’s engaged to some- 
body else, I expect. I suppose we all make idiots 
of ourselves over a woman once. This is my first 
experience.” 

Each time that he evaded her inquiry, and with- 
held the name, he stabbed her anew. At this in- 
stant she could have struck him for it - 

“Poor old boy,” she repeated, walking about the 
room. “I wonder if you know what I’m going to 
say?” 


128 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

“You’re not going to advise me to marry her?” 
he asked. 

She drew her breath sharply. His every word 
made the hopelessness of her aim more apparent. 

“Don’t,” he said; “because I’m weaker than I 
knew! Since I’ve been in town there have been 
moments when impulse could have given her to 
me, she’d be my wife to-night. He doesn’t under- 
stand, but you — you know what I am. I want you 
to din it into me, to keep telling me that I’m a 
scoundrel and a rogue.” 

“I’m not going to advise you to marry her,” she 
said, moistening her lips. “You would be wretched 
with her; you have too much conscience; your life 
would be a hell.” 

“That wouldn’t matter,” he said; “it’s her life 
I’m thinking of; if she accepted me, I might ruin 
it. Suppose the truth were discovered — somehow 
— some day? Oh, I know it isn’t likely to happen; 
it’s almost certain that it never will happen now. 
But if it did? To have dragged her down! Be- 
sides you’re right — I should have hours of agony. 
My God! if I had no other guilt to answer for than 
the sins of every man, I should still feel ashamed 
when I touched her hand. At first she was only 
strange to me, I — I was embarrassed: the other 
women I’d been introduced to were forgotten. I 
felt as far from her as from the women I had 


129 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


watched as they drove by me when I was shabby 
and hungry in the streets. And then for a little 
while there was a satisfaction— I congratulated 
myself. ‘Money is even better than you dreamed/ 
I said; ‘how it unlocks the doors! Bravo!’ And 
then the satisfaction passed as well. I suppose I’d 
begun to love her, though I didn’t realize it — and 
sometimes when I met her eyes, I thought ‘How 
would she look at you if she knew! Adventurer, 
impostor, if she knew!’ ” 

“You would be wretched,” said Rosa again. “You 
did a wise thing in refusing. If you made her your 
wife you would regret it to the day you died. Oh, 
I understand/’ she went on tremulously, “how you 
must feel, and that the temptation must be pretty 
big; but, take my word for it, if you gave way you 
would be a fool as well as a blackguard. You 
would suffer remorse all the time, you wouldn’t be 
happy a bit — you aren’t the man to do a woman a 
wrong, and not trouble about it.” 

She longed for him to go. Unfounded as her 
hope had been, she had nursed it for months, it had 
fastened upon her; and her disappointment was 
bitter, vivid. The battle between her judgment 
and her nature was wearing her out. It would 
have relieved her to beat her fists on the table, and 
mutter her hysterical oaths. To affect to pity him, 
without preparation, before she had had time to 
13a 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


steady herself from the shock, was an effort that 
could not last. 

She sat down, and lit another cigarette, and 
sought refuge in contemplative silence. It was for 
this, then, that she had schooled herself to leave 
him in peace — that he should fall in love with an- 
other woman in the meanwhile, and come to tell 
her of it! 

“I shall expect to see you often now you’re 
back,” she said heroically, after a long silence; “I 
must help you to get over this facer.” 

“You’re very good,” said Maurice, “but I don’t 
think we’ll say any more about it — I mean to for- 
get. I’ll come to see you, but we’ll talk about 
everything except ” 

“Except what you’ll be thinking of!” she put in. 

“Except what I haven’t the right to think of!” 

“Are you at your rooms?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he said; “why?” 

“Only that if you’ve got a photograph of her 
there, I’d like to see it. Or do you carry it in your 
pocket?” 

“You don’t understand,” he said with surprise. 
“The attachment is all on one side. I haven’t her 
photograph anywhere. Good Lord, did you think 
she cared for me? / am nothing to her at all!” 

“You might have stolen a photograph,” she an- 
swered; his statement did not console her in the 

131 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


least: the momentous question was not whether he 
was loved, but whether he would propose. Indeed, 
that his devotion was not reciprocated heightened 
the peril; a woman looked her best to a man while 
he was pursuing her — like a butterfly to a boy; 
capture brushed the bloom off them both. 

He went at last, and she cast the shackles from 
her. By degrees the luxury of unrestricted action 
caused her pluck to revive. After all, she had good 
cards. His scruples, which she would take care to 
keep alive, were her “four to a flush”; and since he 
would feel debarred from marriage with other 
women as well, time should deal her the ace. The 
pool might be long in coming, longer than she had 
promised herself, but surely she was justified even 
now in hoping that she would win in the end? He 
might not fall to her from sentiment, nor from 
passion; but only to herself could he ever utter 
what was in his mind, and habit was a force, too. 
Her reflections encouraged her. 

She had some slight expectation of seeing him 
after dinner on the morrow, and she held herself 
well in hand, but the evening passed while she 
waited to hear the bell ring. On the next, she was 
more confident, and she even put the cigar-box on 
the table in readiness for him. She put the cigar- 
box on the table for three evenings in succession. 

Her fears began to reassert themselves, and on 


132 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


the fifth morning after his visit she telegraphed to 
Bury Street, begging him to lunch with her. 

She had mentioned two o’clock in the telegram, 
and at half-past two she sat down to lunch alone. 
She was now exceedingly anxious, and, though she 
tried to persuade herself that Maurice had just 
gone out when her message arrived, she regretted 
that she had not sent a note by the parlour-maid, 
who could have inquired whether he had left town. 

As the day wore on, and no word from him 
reached her, she entertained the idea of driving to 
his rooms, but was deterred by the thought that he 
might call at any moment. For the same reason 
she hesitated to leave the house after nightfall. It 
was only when eleven o’clock struck that she gave 
up all hope of his coming, and now she decided to 
end her suspense before she slept. 

In the hansom she was mastered by the convic- 
tion that the worst had happened, that he had re- 
turned to Oakenhurst; her relief was intense when 
she heard that Mr. Jardine was at home, and alone. 

She was only kept waiting a minute, and she 
found Maurice with his gloves on; his hat and 
stick lay on the table. 

“You’re a beauty,” she said; “I’ve been fright- 
ened out of my life about you!” 

“I just came in, and got your wire,” he ex- 


133 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

plained; “I’m so awfully sorry. I’ve been out all 
day.” 

“And the other days?” said she. “I thought you 
were coming to see me again soon?” 

He shrugged his shoulders. “I shouldn’t have 
been good company, so I stayed away! What did 
you come round so late for — what did you suppose 
was the matter?” 

“Your welcome is — is very warm!” she smiled. 
“I tell you I thought all sorts of things might be 
the matter; I was afraid you were laid up. I’ll sit 
down if you ask me, and have a drink now I’m 
here.” 

“You had better loosen your jacket,” he said, 
“or you’ll take cold when you go out.” 

He wheeled a chair to the hearth as he spoke, 
and she stretched out her hand for the cigarettes. 
As he produced the tantalus, another telegram was 
brought in to him, and Rosa understood before he 
passed it to her that it came from Surrey. 

She fixed him with eager eyes. “What?” she 
murmured. 

“Sir Noel is ill,” stammered Maurice; “he wants 
me back!” 

“Back!” Her thoughts spun. The dread of mar- 
riage and the hope of death eddied in her mind 
confusingly. 

Maurice turned to the man: “Call a cab/’ he 


i34 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


said; and then glancing at the clock, “No! stop!” 
he added, “it’s no use — I can’t go till the morning. 
Is the boy waiting?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

He pencilled a reply, promising to return by the 
earliest train. When the answer was despatched, 
there was no more to be done. He re-read the 
message: “111 in bed. Would like to see you. Con- 
sultation yesterday. Come as soon as possible.” 

Rosa and he looked at each other intently. 

“He wants me back,” he repeated; “I am bound to 
go!” 

She could not dispute it — there was no alternative 
— circumstances were too strong for them both. She 
was about to say that perhaps he would not be de- 
tained long, when there was a second interruption. 
Somebody knocked at the door and opened it simul- 
taneously, and a man strode in who was evidently 
familiar there. He did not see Rosa until he was in 
the middle of the room, and then he started, with a 
quick apology: 

“I beg you ten thousand pardons, Jardine! I was 
outside when you drove up; I thought you were 
alone.” 

“It’s — it’s all right,” said Maurice. “How are 
you? Let me present you to Mrs. Fleming. Cap- 
tain Boulger — Mrs. Fleming.” 

“I have just brought Mr. Jardine bad news,” said 
Rosa, recovering herself. “Sir Noel is very ill.” 


135 


CHAPTER X. 


Fred Boulger soon invented an excuse to with- 
draw, but Rosa’s leave-taking had to be made at the 
same time, and she could say no more in going than 
“You will be sure to let me know how you find your 
father on your arrival?” She threw all the signifi- 
cance she could into the request, but she was in- 
censed, not only by the interruption, but by the con- 
sciousness that a false impression might easily have 
been excited in the intruder’s mind, although Mau- 
rice had done his best to avert it by introducing her. 
As for Maurice himself, he was engrossed by the 
knowledge that he was returning to the Court, and 
that, whether he wished it or not, he must speedily 
meet Helen again. 

When he reached the house in the early morning 
he learnt that the old man had been attacked by 
pneumonia. 

“Sir Noel was took ill the day after ’e called at 
Whichcote, sir,” said Cope. “He drove over to her 
ladyship’s on Thursday afternoon, and Dr. Sanders 
considers that ’e must ’ave caught a chill, sir, though 
the day was quite mild and pleasant for the time of 
the year.” 


136 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“What physician has been down? What did he 
say?” asked Maurice, rapidly. 

“Sir David Parry, sir; ’e ’ad hopes, sir, strong 
hopes! I understood from the night nurse just now, 
sir, that Sir Noel ’ad passed a good night, and was 
still asleep.” 

Nearly half an hour went by before a message 
came that the baronet was awake, and then Maurice 
went upstairs at once. The nurse walked out of the 
room with a rustle of the stiff skirts which nurses 
should not be allowed to wear, and he noted that, 
while she had been drilled to deft hands, the training 
had not been extended to her noisy feet. 

“This is a bad business, governor!” he said. “But 
they tell me you’re soon going to be about again, 
eh?” 

Sir Noel nodded weakly; the smile that had 
lightened his face at Maurice’s entrance had faded, 
and left it very wan. In the big bed he seemed to 
have aged and shrunk. 

“Perhaps,” he said; “perhaps; I don’t know.” He 
spoke with great difficulty, and made frequent 
pauses. “It is good of you to come so quickly; I 
have been thinking about you all the time. . 

We were not good friends when you went away; I 
have regretted it very much.” 

“My fault,” said Maurice; “my fault, every bit of 
it — it’s for me to regret! Don’t grieve any more 


137 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

about that, governor. Why didn’t you wire me be- 
fore?’’ 

“I did not want to bother you. You were amusing 
yourself in town when I dragged you away?” 

“Not a scrap. I would have come last night, only 
there was no train.” 

“I wired very late, I know. I tell you, I have been 
thinking about you all the time, last night especially 
. . . and the nurse came in, and asked if there 

was anything I wanted. Did you notice the nurse? 
I like her; she is very attentive; so is the day nurse 
— the day nurse reads very well. . . . You 

would be surprised what patients she has had; she 
is quite a young woman, but what she has been 
through! I must tell you some day of her mor- 
phia-habit case — extraordinary! . . . Well, 
well, that has nothing to do with it. What was I 
going to say? . . . Yes! She came in and 

asked if there was anything I wanted, and I said 
I wanted a telegraph form, and she sent it at once. 
You will stop, Philip, now that you are here?” 
He broke off, coughing. 

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Maurice, “I’ll stop. 
What did you go driving in the cold for, governor? 
Why didn’t you take better care of yourself?” 

Sir Noel sighed. 

“Ah, it was not the drive,” he answered; “the 
doctors don’t know. They said that, with my bron- 
chitis, either exposure to cold, or worry, might be 

138 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


the cause. I told them I was not worried, . . . 

so they put it down to the drive; but — but your re- 
fusal hurt me a good deal. . . . However, it 

can’c be helped; I must put up with it.” His voice 
had grown fainter. “Now leave me,” he added; “you 
will come back presently; I am tired.” 

The unexpected reply gave Maurice a disquieting 
sense of responsibility. If the illness was indeed 
attributable to his determination to do right, he felt 
that he had received a poor reward for his effort. 
While he breakfasted the hope rose that the invalid 
had exaggerated — that he had adapted the medical 
opinion to his requirements; but when the local 
practitioner paid his visit the idea was banished. 

“Sir Noel is suffering from patchy pneumonia,” 
said Dr. Sanders. “He is better than he was, oh, 
yes; but there is still a good deal of it creeping 
about the left lung, and the condition is very dan- 
gerous, particularly late in life.” 

“What,” Maurice asked, “do you think it is due 
to? The drive?” 

Dr. Sanders shrugged his shoulders. 

“Possibly — possibly; though Thursday wasn’t a 
day on which I should have thought a short drive 
could hurt your father. Of course, in Sir Noel’s 
normal state of health anxiety would explain it also 
— his liver is not what it might be, you know, and 
there is the bronchial trouble besides. Anxiety 


i39 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


would certainly explain it, but he tells me that he 
has had none. Still, he is going on very nicely, Mr. 
Jardine. With care, with care, and an even tempera- 
ture ” He had said all he knew, and it was plain 

that further questioning would only result in his 
repeating himself. 

By-and-by Maurice went to the bedside again, but 
his presence there was not desirable frequently, nor 
for more than a few minutes at a time. The hours 
were long, and the corroboration of the old man’s 
statement harassed him. The illness was his fault — 
or, if not his “fault,” at least his doing! The fact dis- 
turbed him more because he could not make amends 
for it, and he foresaw that he would be asked to do 
so, and that his second refusal would appear more 
ungracious than his first. He learnt that Lady 
Wrensfordsley had either called or sent a servant 
with an inquiry every day, and he wondered whether 
she would call this afternoon. About four o’clock, 
when he was told that she and Helen were in the 
cedar drawing-room, he could not for a moment af- 
fect to believe that he was sorry. 

“We couldn’t go away without seeing you when 
we heard you were here!” she said. “We can’t stop, 
but servants’ answers are always so unsatisfactory. 
Blow is Sir Noel going on?” 

“He is better,” he said; “so the doctor declares. 
He had a good night. It was immensely good of 


140 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


you to come in! And all your messages — I want to 
thank you for them, too.” 

“We feel very guilty,” remarked the girl; “it was 
in driving to us that he took a chill, wasn’t it? The 
news must have been a great shock to you, Mr. 
Jardine?” 

“Yes,” said Maurice; “my father is just well 
enough to be reproached, and I’ve been telling him 
how badly he behaved in not letting me know be- 
fore.” He turned to Lady Wrensfordsley. “Do 
please stay a little,” he begged; “it will be charitable 
of you.” 

They remained about a quarter of an hour. She 
hoped that he would go over to them as soon as it 
was practicable for him to seek a little necessary 
change. There was tea; there was the reference to 
the subversion of his plans, and the inevitable ex- 
pression of regret that they should have been frus- 
trated by circumstances so serious. He held Helen’s 
hand again for an instant; and the sun sank. 

For a week, while Sir Noel’s health slowly im- 
proved, he saw her no more. Then he called at 
Whichcote. There had been nothing to prevent his 
going sooner, but he had sworn that he wouldn’t. 
The step made, however, he took no further oath, 
but went often. He was likely to be kept in Oak- 
enhurst for a couple of months, and he told himself 
that he couldn’t repay Lady Wrensfordsley’s friend- 
141 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


liness with incivility. Every day his longings crept 
closer to the edge of his resistance. Thoughts 
came which he no longer strove to put away from 
him. He began to wonder if it was true that he 
would be accepted if he proposed. He did not 
intend to propose, but there was no harm in sup- 
position — or he said that there wasn’t — and to im- 
agine himself Helen’s husband made his brain 
swim. Sometimes he questioned if he had mag- 
nified the impossibility of an offer. He had surely 
passed his danger? It was scarcely conceivable that 
exposure could befall him now. Only one person 
was in the secret, and, apart from their comrade- 
ship, her tongue was tied by the strongest of all 
interests; to betray him would be to lose her own 
income, and to render herself liable to prosecu- 
tion. He was justified in believing that to count 
Rosa Fleming among the obstacles was to create a 
bogey. What then? The arrival on the scene of 
someone who had been intimate with Jardine 
abroad? The likeness and the circumstances would 
withstand a stronger assault. His conscience? 
Yes, his conscience was to be reckoned with, but 
it wouldn’t injure Helen; shame or no shame, she 
would see only the obvious, and occasionally he 
felt that for the joy of moments with her he was 
prepared to pay any price that came out of his own 
pocket. He was never so near the brink as when 


142 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


he found Mr. Seymour at the house, for then his 
doubt whether he could win her if he tried was 
fiercest, and his moribund strength had to contend 
not only with love, but with jealousy. 

Nor were these the only minatory circumstances. 
His apprehensions had not misled him: Sir Noel 
had speedily revived the subject of his desire. His 
initial venture had been tentative enough — a half- 
veiled lament; but the next time he spoke more 
plainly. He was an old man, with but one wish; 
why was Maurice so obdurate? Did he dislike her? 
To reply that he did dislike her Maurice felt would 
be ludicrous, and he simply repeated that he did 
not want to marry. Such an answer could avail 
him nothing. The other’s appeals gained in force; 
he was ill — it was “his son’s attitude” that had made 
him ill; he had deserved better treatment at his 
hands! The situation was not without pathos; it 
gave to the invalid an advantage which was pressed 
to the fullest extent, and the man who was battling 
with his weakness had to listen to daily denuncia- 
tions of his obduracy. At Whichcote, and at home, 
he was constantly tempted; even his solitude be- 
came vivid temptation. When November had 
passed, he had succumbed mentally more than 
once. 

Meanwhile, the frequency of Seymour’s visits 
had grown no less irritating to Lady Wrensfords- 


i43 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


ley, and one afternoon, when she and her daughter 
were alone together, she said: 

“I am distressed at something I have heard about 
Bobbie. I don’t like the way he is going on in 
town. We are not supposed to know anything 
about it, of course, but I am afraid he is the reverse 
of steady.” 

“So many men are extravagant, mother,” said 
Helen, stooping over Pip. 

“Bobbie’s position doesn’t warrant extravagance; 
and there is no probability that it will ever improve. 
I have the weakness to be very fond of him, but 
between ourselves, I admire few people less. I 
know his type so well; he is very selfish, and will 
get himself into difficulties with the utmost cheer- 
fulness to the end of the chapter. Lady Savile tells 
me he gambles shockingly.” 

As a matter of fact, the information had not 
affected her so much as it would have done if it had 
come from another source. She knew that Lady 
Savile had been unremitting in her inquiries at the 
Court since Maurice’s return, and his allegiance to 
Whichcote must have damped the fair Agatha’s 
hope considerably since the afternoon she had 
monopolized him in Chapel Street. A little bitter- 
ness, a maternal alacrity to exaggerate unwelcome 
news, was to be expected. But she had been mean- 


144 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

ing to discuss her nephew with the girl for some 
time. 

“Bobbie and I have always been great friends,” 
murmured Helen. Her tone said, “Please don’t 
run him down to me; it hurts,” and* Lady Wrens- 
fordsley understood it. 

“Friends,” she replied; “oh, yes; you have a 
cousinly regard for him. There is nothing more 
than that between you, I am sure?” 

“And if there were?” said Helen, still playing 
with the dog. 

“I should lose my very high opinion of your 
good sense, darling, and think less of Bobbie, still. 
But you are only in fun?” 

There was a short silence, in which Lady Wrens- 
fordsley’s misgivings mounted rapidly. 

“Helen!” she exclaimed. “Helen, you weren't 
serious? Why don’t you answer me?” 

“Bobbie has never asked me to marry him,” said 
the girl, “if — if that is what you want to know. If 
he did, perhaps ” 

“Yes. If he did, perhaps what?” 

“If he did You are my mother, I may own 

it to you.” 

“My dear child,” said Lady Wrensfordsley; “yes, 
I am your mother, and you know how much you 
are to me. I hadn’t a suspicion that it was so bad; 


145 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


I thought — I was' afraid of a flirtation. Oh, Helen, 
I blame myself awfully; I’m so sorry!” 

“It’s nothing to be proud of, is it, to feel like 
that about a man who hasn’t asked you. I’m 
ashamed of having said it. Am I ‘horrid’?” 

“Not horrid, dear — a little foolish, that is all; for 
it can never come to anything.” 

“You don’t want me to marry for position, 
mother?” 

“No, I only want you to be happy. But you 
wouldn’t be happy with Bobbie, even if I paid his 
debts, and let him take you. You are not the 
woman to respect a husband who owed you every- 
thing.” 

“He would go into the House. I should make 
him ambitious, and he would succeed in politics if 
I were his wife.” 

“He would succeed in nothing with a compara- 
tively wealthy wife; he would be content with the 
success he had achieved. The man who would be 
of service to the country is Mr. Jar dine — he has 
ideas.” 

“Mr. Jardine? Mr. Jardine is half a radical, and 
the other half a bore.” 

“Because he is attracted by you, and Bobbie 
doesn’t care for him?” said Lady Wrensfordsley, 
more bluntly than was her habit. 


146 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

“Is he attracted by me? I am sure I never think 
about it.” 

“You know very well he is attracted by you; and 
I should be glad if you did think about it — I like 
him.” 

Helen looked at her and gave a little mirthless 
laugh. 

“What a long way round you take, mother — even 
with me!” 

“He is an excellent fellow, dearest,” said Lady 
Wrensfordsley, “and you would never have any 
occasion to regret it, I’m convinced.” Her mind 
was less easy than her manner, but tact told her 
that to say any more would be a mistake. 

The girl was relieved that the discussion was al- 
lowed to drop. She was angry with herself for 
admitting what she had. Her confession had been 
premature, an impulse; it was a thing that she felt 
it would humiliate her to remember. But she had 
been wounded by the disparagement of Seymour, 
and her loyalty had sought to check it. In her 
heart she had known for some time that he was 
more to her than their relationship explained; 
whether she actually loved him was a question she 
had not permitted herself to face — and that she was 
able to avoid it in truth supplied the answer — but, 
at least, she had a sentiment for him which no other 
man had stirred in her. She wondered again if the 


147 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


cousin who was called selfish and weak had, where 
she was concerned, been stronger than most men, 
because he wasn’t a match for her. Perhaps that 
she had to wonder was her own fault, she reflected; 
she had so dreaded to cheapen herself that she 
might have repulsed him unconsciously. 

She was crediting him with a heroism that he 
was far from possessing, for Mr. Seymour’s de- 
meanour had not been less serious than his feelings. 
To say that he was not fascinated by her, or that 
the idea of telling her he loved her had never 
presented itself to him would be false, but it de- 
lighted him to avow a passion for any pretty 
woman. To be keenly miserable about a woman 
for a week was one of his greatest joys. And he 
preferred his divinities married; the thought of 
double harness made him restive. Besides cui bonof 
His aunt would have a fit if Helen accepted him, 
and mothers’ fits told in the end; the luxury of a 
love-scene wasn’t worth the reproaches that would 
be levelled at him. No, he couldn’t afford it; Aunt 
Sophy was too useful to be offended by a folly that 
' she would never forgive ! 

He had at no time had more cause to be thankful 
for not having committed himself to the blunder of 
a declaration than he had a week or so after the 
conversation about him took place. Lady Savile’s 
report had been true enough, and now he had 
148 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


given an I. O. U. for over two hundred and twenty- 
pounds, across a whist table, at the Turf Club. It 
was no more possible for him to find the money 
without Lady Wrensfordsley’s help ‘than to find 
two thousand, and it had been necessary for him 
to send the check. Fortunately it was on a Thurs- 
day that he had lost the money, and he had not 
posted the check until the next afternoon, assuring 
himself of two clear days before it could be pre- 
sented; but he felt very ill. 

Fie went down to Whichcote pale and nervous. 
If she refused to enable him to make things right 
as soon as the bank opened, he would be disgraced, 
and the sermon that had accompanied her latest 
loan to him recurred discouragingly. He hoped 
that there would be a favorable opportunity for his 
appeal — in these matters the right moment meant 
so much — but later than the morrow he could not 
wait, and at the thought of having to blurt out his 
errand like a schoolboy he trembled. On consid- 
eration he decided that “while he was about it he 
might just as well say he* owed two hundred and 
fifty. That would put a pony in his pocket!” 

The opportunity did not occur till the next 
morning; indeed he could not feel that it had oc- 
curred then, but between breakfast and church- 
time, while Helen was dressing, he found his aunt 


149 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


alone, which was at least better than having to beg 
for an interview. 

“Am I interrupting you?” he asked. She was 
writing at her desk. 

“Not in the least. There are one or two notes I 
must answer, that is all. What a nuisance a Sun- 
day post is!” 

“Most posts are!” he said. “There’s a lack of 
variety about the letters one gets; they always be- 
gin ‘Sir, I am surprised’ — creditors never seem to 
outgrow the capability for surprise.” 

“Oh?” she murmured. 

“Only some debts are more terrible than others.” 

“To be sure,” she said; “of course. The Ob- 
server is there, if you’d like to look at it.” 

He did not want to look at it; he sat down, and 
ruffled it impatiently, and put it aside, and got up 
again. 

“By the by, I wanted to speak to you about — 

about a debt of mine. I’m ashamed to say . 

But I am interrupting you, I see!” 

“A moment only! What day does the 20th fall 
on, do you know?” 

“No, I don’t know.” 

“Ah, never mind. Now, my dear boy? I am 
quite at your service. Go on; you wanted to speak 
to me, you said?” 

“Well, to be frank, I’m in a deuce of a mess. It 
150 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


sticks in my throat to acknowledge it, but I’ve had 
a facer. I hoped I should be able to pull through, 
and I haven’t pulled through — I’ve got deeper. 
Now I don’t know where to turn. I’m absolutely 
to blame, of course — a gambler and an idiot — and 
I don’t attempt to make excuses for myself; but 
the fact remains that I feel like putting a bullet 
through my head, and that if I can’t meet a check 
by ten o’clock to-morrow, it would be about the 
best thing for me.” 

“What is the amount?” asked Lady Wrensfords- 
ley coldly. 

“Two hundred and fifty. If I could only get clear 
this time, I’d ” 

“Make some more good resolutions? My dear 
Bobbie, two hundred and fifty pounds is a large 
sum, and you forget how often I’ve heard this sort 
of talk. I’m not a rich woman. I am very sorry 
for you, but ” She shook her head. 

“I’d make them and keep them,” he put in 
eagerly. “I would, I swear it! It’s a tremendous 
favour, of course, but it means that I’m asking you 
to save me from ruin. If you’d lend me what I 
want this once, I’d — well, there’s nothing I wouldn’t 
do for you, Aunt Sophy! I’d be grateful to you as 
long as I lived!” 

She looked beyond him thoughtfully, toying with 
one of the rings on her fingers. 

151 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“There are not many people I should feel in- 
clined to help in such a fashion,” she said at last. 
“But I am foolish enough to be fond of you, as it 
happens; indeed, after Helen, I am fonder of you 
than of anyone I know.” 

“It is very kind of you to say so.” 

“It is certainly saying a good deal, for Helen is 
quite all I have to live for.” 

He mumbled deprecation. 

“You need not be polite — it is the truth. Almost 
the only thing I look forward to in life is to see her 
desirably settled.” 

“There will be no difficulty about that, I should 
imagine,” said Seymour, as yet a little uncertain 
of her trend. 

“You think not, eh?” 

“Helen is too charming not to be able to marry 
as she pleases.” 

“Yes, but I want her to please me, too. Do you 
know I have sometimes feared that there was a 
silly flirtation between yourself and her, Bobbie?” 

“Between us?” he cried, now following her per- 
fectly. 

“It would be too unkind of you if it were so. 
You know that it could lead to nothing; I should 
blame you very much.” 

“I should blame myself!” he laughed. “My posi- 
tion would hardly justify me in proposing to her!” 


152 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“Well, no!” she said, smiling too. “As a man of 
the world, you see it, of course. You’re a dear boy, 
but not eligible.” 

He admitted it again, cheerfully. Things had 
taken a promising turn; he wished he had made the 
sum three hundred. 

“But Helen, a young girl, might mistake your 
attentions for something serious; and other people 
— other men — might be misled also. Lady Savile 
as good as asked me if you were engaged to her; 
that kind of thing is very — very detrimental. It 
wouldn’t be nice of you, Bobbie, especially at a 
time when I’m willing to come to your rescue, to 
stand in your cousin’s light.” 

Seymour drew a deep breath before he an- 
swered: 

“My dear Aunt Sophy, I should be immensely 
sorry!” he said. “As a matter of fact, after I go 
back this afternoon I am afraid it will be some little 
time before I see either of you again, because I 
can’t come down at Christmas after all. I shouldn’t 
be able to stand in her light if I were fool enough 
to want to do such a thing.” 

“Really?” said Lady Wrensfordsley; “you won’t 
be with us at Christmas? Well, I daresay you’ll 
find a livelier party somewhere else. What is the 
time? You go this afternoon, you say. I had better 
give you the check now, then.” She turned to the 


153 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


desk again, and picked up her pen. “By the way,” 
she added, “you might perhaps — er — mention to 
Helen — I mean you might let her know that you 
do not regard the stupid matter seriously? There 
is always a way of conveying these things, and 
since you mayn’t meet each other for months, it 
might be as well to let her understand that there is 
nothing in it when you say ‘good-by.’ ” 

“Certainly,” said Seymour. He took the check. 
“I have no words ” 

“No,” she said, “don’t try to find any. I don’t 
want you to thank me. That’s all right, Bobbie; 
but don’t go getting yourself into difficulties any 
more!” Two hundred and fifty pounds was a lot 
of money, but she had not often drawn a check 
with a greater sense of satisfaction. 


154 


CHAPTER XI. 


When Seymour mentioned during luncheon that 
he should not be with them at Christmas the care- 
lessness of his announcement hurt the girl. There 
had been various references between them to Christ- 
mas latterly; several people were expected, and 
there was some idea of theatricals, in which he had 
offered to take part. He had, as a matter of fact, 
professed himself willing to carry on a tea-tray, with 
the secret hope of being cast for the lover. For an 
instant she wondered how their plans could have 
slipped his memory, and then, with a wave of indig- 
nation, she felt that he had been banished. 

His air, however, did not support the theory, and 
she was puzzled; she could not avoid seeing that he 
was far gayer now than when he had arrived. The 
respite from anxiety had, indeed, sent his spirits up 
to par, and the cheerfulness with which he made little 
jokes and laughed at them himself was quite obvi- 
ously genuine. His embarrassment did not occur 
till he was alone with her, and their tete-a-tete was 
not yet to be, for Lady Wrensfordsley was far too 
diplomatic to betray any eagerness to efface herself. 


i55 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


However, between luncheon and tea the time 
came, and he hoped that Helen would question him 
now. As she did not, it devolved upon him to intro- 
duce the subject. He kicked the coal for inspiration. 

“Awful bore about Christmas,” he said, “isn’t it!” 

“A bore?” she said; “you mean about your not 
coming down? Yes, it’s rather a pity.” She was 
manifestly resolved not to inquire why his intentions 
had been changed, and her rescue made his task 
more difficult. The next moment, though, he turned 
it to account with some dexterity. 

“Don’t be high-and-mighty, Helen! I should 
have told you about it first, only you were so un-get- 
at-able all the morning. You might say you’re sorry 
when a fellow can’t come.” 

She gave him a quick smile. 

“I was sore, a tiny bit,” she owned, “but it’s all 
over now; we won’t quarrel just when you’re going 
away. If you can’t come, you can’t!” 

“Perhaps it’s just as well that I, can’t!” he mur- 
mured. 

He said it as if by impulse, but the best acting in 
the world could not have prevented her thoughts 
flying to her mother again. Then he had been lec- 
tured, after all! He had been told he was in the way! 

“How?” she said slowly. “Why just as well?” If 
he answered, “Because I’m fond of you, and your 
156 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


mother has reminded me I’ma beggar,” her whole 
heart would go out to him. 

“Oh,” he said, “just as well on your account. 
People will begin to think I’m in love with you if 
I’m always hanging about. You know we have 
flirted, Helen, desperately!” 

The reply strengthened her suspicion, but the tone 
in which it was made was the crudest slight she had 
ever endured. There was no renunciation in it — she 
could not deceive herself; if he had been given a hint 
it had quite evidently had his cordial approval ! She 
was cold with an awful fear that he might have de- 
tected her tenderness for him — that he might be 
reading her a lesson — and she would have given ten 
years of her life at the instant to prove to him how 
superfluous it was. 

She forced her eyes, wide with amusement, to his 
face. 

“I didn't know it,” she said; “so we have ‘flirted 
desperately’ — you and I? Oh, Bobbie, how very un- 
principled of you ! What a risk I have run — if I had 
only dreamed!” 

Seymour looked a little uncomfortable. 

“You know I didn’t mean that at all,” he said, 
reddening. “I only meant that people might think 
there was something in it. I’m not such a conceited 
ass as to suppose ” 

She would hear no more, and she cut him short 


i57 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


with laughter; 6ut it rang false in her awn ears. 
Did he guess? It was the one question she kept 
asking herself. The thought that she — for whom the 
only reproach that men had ever found was that she 
was cold — might be standing before him like a 
schoolgirl, rebuked for sentimentality, was piercing 
her. Ten years of her life? If now he had cried to 
her that he loved her, and that her humiliation had 
only been caused by a jest, she would have thanked 
heaven for the chance to perjure herself and refuse 
him. 

Her shame bowed her when he had closed the 
door. Of a truth she had shaken his vanity severely, 
but she had lost the composure necessary to believe 
that she had deceived him at all. If he had always 
guessed her folly, or if her mother's greater and 
unpardonable folly had illumined his perception, no 
mere words could have served her. She leant 
against the mantelshelf, her head resting on her arm. 
Tears of anger sprang to her eyes and rolled down 
her cheeks. She hated herself and him more because 
she was crying; and again and again she longed for 
a proposal from him, only that she might convince 
him that she didn’t care for him, and recover her 
self-esteem. 

It was like this that Maurice found her ten min- 
utes later. She made a valiant effort, but her 
158 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


eyes were wet; and he was too fond of her to be com- 
petent to ignore the fact. 

“I startled you,” he stammered; '‘forgive me.” 

“I didn’t hear you come in. My head aches — I 
am not myself.” 

“I can’t bear to see you grieve,” said Maurice; he 
had never spoken to her so spontaneously. “Is 
there anything that / can do? Tell me — I’d do any- 
thing in the world to save you pain!” 

She lifted a smile to him, deprecating his earnest- 
ness with convention. 

“Oh, no; it is very kind of you, but it was nothing. 
Pray don’t look so anxious. We women make such 
a fuss about a trifle, you know.” She moved to leave 
him. 

“Ah, Helen!” he exclaimed, “Helen!” 

“Mr. Jardine!” 

“Yes, ‘Helen’ — ‘Helen’!” His arms ached to hold 
her, and he remembered nothing but his love and 
her distress. “I have been hungry to call you 
‘Helen!’ Oh, my Love, I love you! To see you cry! 
I didn’t know you could cry — you! — you have 
seemed so stately to me, and so far away — and 
then, in a second your tears brought me nearer to 
you than all the months. I love you. Dear, I love 
you!” 

She stood pale and thoughtful, and he trembled in 
her silence. 


159 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“I am not worthy,” he said. “Oh, I know— under 
your feet. But no shade of care shall ever touch 
you. . . . I’ll only live to give you joy. . . . 

You would turn my life into a heaven, and I would 
worship you! . . . There is no one like you. 

If I could tell you what you are to me you would 
pity me. But I can’t — I become a boy — you take 
my words away.” 

“You think so much of me as that?” 

He drew nearer to her. “Do you give me hope?” 
he asked. 

“Ah,” she said, half playfully, “if I am so very 
wonderful I should be selfish, should I not, to re- 
fuse?” 

“May God protect you, and let me\” gasped Mau- 
rice. He kissed her hands — he did not dare as yet to 
touch her lips. “You have made me the happiest 
man on earth!” 

Now her mother’s voice was heard, and the next 
moment she came into the room. 

“Bobbie will miss his train if he doesn’t make 
haste,” she said; “where is he?” 

“Lady Wrensfordsley/’ said Maurice, “will you 
give your daughter to me? I don’t deserve her, but 
all my life I mean to try.” 

She embraced them with a gaze. 

“This is a surprise indeed!” she faltered. “But — 
but yes, from my heart; there is no man I should 
160 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


grudge her to so little.” She opened her arms, and 
Helen went to her passively. 

“I should like Bobbie to know before he goes, 
mother,” murmured the girl. 

Almost as she spoke he joined them in haste to 
say “Good-by,” and Lady Wrensfordsley said: 

“You must spare time to offer your congratula- 
tions first!” 

Seymour looked from his cousin to Maurice, and 
back again, genuinely astonished. 

“What! No, really!” he exclaimed. “The best 
of good wishes to you both, I’m sure! So that was 
why you laughed?” he added under his breath. 

“That was why I laughed!” 

“Felicitations innumerable!” 

She tendered a careless hand. “So good of you!” 
she said. 

Her deep satisfaction might have shown her that 
her feeling for him had been shallow, but her feel- 
ing for him had been a weakness she intended 
never to think about again. Her mind was more 
occupied in questioning her sentiments for Mau- 
rice. Had she acted wisely? She had been prepared 
for a proposal from him long ago, and had meant 
to decline it; but the circumstances had been favour- 
able for him, and moreover his words had touched 
her. Yes, she believed she would be happy enough 
with him. When she had called him a bore, she 

161 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


had been thinking of his too obvious homage, and 
since she was to be his wife, his homage wouldn’t 
be undesirable. She hoped he would not expect 
devotion in return, however; it was quite impos- 
sible for her to yield him that, and she would be 
sorry if their marriage disappointed him. At least 
he could never say that she had professed any- 
thing! In church she would have to do so, of 
course — she recalled the fact with distaste — but 
then the wedding service was a form which no 
woman whom she knew took seriously; presum- 
ably men didn’t take it seriously either. 

While she mused, she was listening, and speak- 
ing. Seymour had gone, and Lady Wrensfordsley 
chattered complacently. Dusk had stolen in upon 
them, and Maurice noted the flicker of the firelight 
on the corner of a gilt picture-frame; a heap of 
cumulus darkening in the sky; the violets that the 
girl’s fingers were mechanically destroying. Trifles 
stamped themselves on his consciousness, but the 
magnitude of her promise dwarfed his brain. 
While an intense joy pervaded him, there was a 
sensation of unreality. She was such a long way 
off; no, not a long way off — only the length of the 
rug between them — but there was the impression 
of distance. He was to be her husband. Stupen- 
dous! His heart quaked at the sound; something 
must happen to prevent it! the world would end 


162 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


first! He would have prostrated himself for her to 
tread on, and she was going to entrust him with 
her body and soul. It was to be his to guard her, 
to sympathize with her, to fathom all the caprices 
of her moods, and the failings of her temper — O 
God, give her failings, that he might humour them! 

- — to explore, dazzled by its radiance, the paradise 
of her personality. 

There was a misty moon when he took his way 
home. He had asked her to call him by his name, 
and she had stabbed him with the name of “Philip”; 
it had never struck him so painfully. The recollec- 
tion came that never would he hear her call him by 
his own; though she grew to love him even with 
the love he prayed for, he would always be “Philip” 
to her! His conscience, which had slumbered, 
stirred and woke under the sting of the thought. 
What had he done! How weak, how shamefully 
weak and guilty he had been; after all his struggles, 
to have told her at last! He wrung his hands; yet 
he knew in his soul that he was not sorry. His, and 
his only, the suffering, now and always! And so 
what matter? He would accept suffering for eter- 
nity to gain her, and exult in hell to know that she 
had been his wife! 

The baronet’s delight made triumphal music in 
his ears awhile, and then he was again alone. Re- 


163 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


morse was drowned in imagination. There was the 
night to remember in, and the morrow to foresee. 

He rose with the eagerness of a boy mad with his 
first love. He wanted to go to town, early, at once, 
and buy the ring. He reached Whichcote while the 
Morning Post was still warm from the kitchen fire. 
Helen gave him her finger and a thread of silk, and 
the world swayed as he held them; but he could take 
no measurement. A little colour tinged her face at 
his enthusiasm. He tore off a scrap of the paper, 
and she poked her finger through that, as she 
might have poked it through his heart had it so 
pleased her; and he said: 

“What shall I bring you? Or shall we have a lot 
sent down for you to choose from; which would 
you prefer ?” 

“Which would you?” she asked. 

“If you can tell me what you want, I’d like to 
bring it to you,” he owned. “I want to rush off 
and get it, and rush back with it, and make the in- 
credible seem true. I suppose it’s ridiculous of 
me, but ” 

“It’s very charming of you,” she smiled. “Well, 
choose it for me yourself; I leave it to you.” 

Maurice stood looking at her in a moment’s 
silence. 

“Would it be 'ridiculous’,” he said, “if I asked to 
be allowed to kiss you?” 


164 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


He thought she flinched a little. Then her face 
flushed again, and she inclined her cheek to him. 
He knew beyond the possibility of self-deception 
that he was nothing to her. 

“I’ll bring you the most beautiful ring I can see/’ 
he said. 


165 


CHAPTER XII. 


Whether Sir Noel’s illness had been caused by 
his despondency, or not, certainly his convales- 
cence had proceeded with rapid strides since his 
satisfaction. There had been some talk of his pass- 
ing the rest of the winter in a milder climate, but he 
was averse from even the shortest journey, and as 
the change was not essential, he had remained by 
the fireside at the Court. Here he beamed mildly in 
contemplating the realization of his hope, and, 
when Maurice was present, sang a superfluous 
paean of Helen. Lady Wrensfordsley and she 
called constantly to see him now, and the proudest 
hours he had known were these in which the girl 
who was to be his daughter-in-law flattered him 
with her attentions. Maurice was conscious that 
he never saw her to more advantage than by the 
old man’s side; the slightly contemptuous beauty 
of her face took a new character, and though he 
could not suppose that she entertained any affec- 
tion for the baronet, the gentleness of her solici- 
tude for him was extremely graceful. 

To Rosa the news of the engagement had been 


166 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


no less catastrophic because she had dreaded it. 
It had reached her through the medium of a para- 
graph, for Maurice had shrunk from confessing 
that he had fallen; and that she had been left to 
gather the information in such a way intensified 
her sense of injury. 

Absurd as it was, she had all the emotion of hav- 
ing suffered an indefensible wrong, and she beheld 
herself in the light of a benefactress who had been 
repudiated when her services were all conferred. 
Her mind harped resentfully on the fact that was 
incontrovertible — their compact had not been ful- 
filled, for she was as far from society as before 
Maurice had entered it. Latterly she had forced 
herself to disguise impatience well, and the remem- 
brance of her wasted sacrifice burned in her. When 
at last he came, it was only the fear of betraying 
her defeat that kept her tongue in check. 

“You have been in no hurry for my congratula- 
tions,” she said surlily. 

“To be candid, I was afraid of your reproaches,” 
said Maurice. 

“My reproaches?” Her glance questioned him. 
“Oh, when a thing is done, all the reproaches in 
the world won’t alter it!” 

She knew that the umbrage of her tone must be 
unaccountable to him, but to repress recrimination 
strained her enough. 


167 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“When are you to be married?” she inquired 
after a pause. 

“In March. I want to talk to you about it.” 

“You have been in no hurry,” she said again. 
“I read the news a fortnight ago in Truth. I want 
to talk to you, too; you mean to ask me to the 
wedding, of course?” 

Maurice paled, and looked at her blankly. 

“To — to ask you to the wedding!” he said. “It’s 
to be very quiet on account of Sir Noel’s health; we 
are to be married in Oakenhurst. I’m afraid I can’t 
do that.” 

“You see,” said Rosa, with a quiver in her voice, 
“I have waited a long time for you to keep your 
word. You had no opportunity you told me; the 
wedding will be a splendid one.” 

The suggestion horrified him. There might be 
women in society no better; but Rosa Fleming, 
whom he had met as Jardine’s mistress! To intro- 
duce her to Helen and see them clasp hands? No, 
by Heaven! he might be a rascal, but he wasn’t a 
cad. 

“You’re mistaken,” he said; “it isn’t an oppor- 
tunity; it’s not to be a big affair in town. If I 
wanted you invited, it would be extraordinary; peo- 
ple would wonder.” 

“I don’t know if it ever occurs to you,” she re- 
turned sharply, “but it’s a year since our agreement 


168 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


was made, and I think it's about time I had my 
share. If the wedding is to be a small one, I’ll put 
up with it — that’s my business!” 

His brows knit in perplexity. Insistence would 
compel him to avow the real reason; and to hint to 
a woman that she was not a fit acquaintance for the 
girl who was to be his wife would be a loathsome 
task — especially for a man like himself. No matter 
how ingeniously he might put it, the moment would 
be damnable for them both. 

“If you will hear what I came to tell you,” he be- 
gan; but her self-control was fast deserting her. 

“I would rather,” she exclaimed, “that you heard 
me! I say that a year has gone by and I’ve had 
nothing! I’m stowed away in a furnished flat. I 
don’t want a flat; I want my own house — and other 
people’s houses; I want what I’m entitled to! When 
I complain I get one excuse after another. I’m sick 
of them. Do what you agreed to do; give me a 
chance. You’ve had yours — I want mine.” 

“You can have a house whenever you like,” said 
Maurice. “Will you listen to me? My income is to 
be five thousand when I marry; that means that 
yours will be twelve hundred and fifty. For Heav- 
en’s sake, be reasonable! I give you my word 
of honour — well, perhaps I haven’t got any honour; 
I swear to you — that I have done all that was possi- 
ble for you so far. Don’t, don’t accuse me now — I’m 


169 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


accusing myself enough for both of us ! Remember 
that the last time I was here I was posing as a monu- 
ment of strength, and a few weeks in Oakenhurst 
crumpled me up like straw. I deserve worse things 
than you can say, but let me down as lightly as you 
can. On my oath if I haven’t done all you wanted, 
I have done my best! On my oath, to ask you to 
Oakenhurst would look very strange!” 

Her countenance had cleared. Since her imme- 
diate expectation of an income much larger had been 
banished by two telegrams apprising her of the 
baronet’s improved condition, twelve hundred and 
fifty was a welcome surprise. It is difficult to main- 
tain resentment in the face of good news, and when 
she answered her tone was not ungracious. 

“Twelve hundred and fifty!” she said; “well, I’m 
very glad to hear it; it will be very useful, I’m sure! 
All right; I don’t want to be unreasonable at all — 

I don t want to put a pistol to your head — 
if you really can’t ask me to the wedding, we won’t 
say any more about it; only I can’t go on in this way, 
you know an arrangement is an arrangement — 
and you must do something else for me soon. 
When can you?” 

1 11 see, he murmured. “I don’t forget you. 
Come! In the meantime things look better, don’t 
they? You can take a charming house somewhere; 
you might even keep a carriage, and engage a com- 


V 


170 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


panion. Or you could travel; you might have a 
grand time on the Continent! I should think that 
travel would be a good deal more enjoyable than a 
house in London — and that way you would meet 
heaps of people. Nobody is ever satisfied, of 
course; but upon my word you have a very agree- 
able life from an outsider’s point of view! You’re 
free to go where you choose, you can buy almost 
anything you like, you have no responsibilities; it 
isn’t hardship, now, is it?” 

She accorded him a grudging smile, and when 
they parted it was ostensibly as friends; but the re- 
membrance of the interview lurked in his mind dis- 
quietingly. Her grievance, indeed, worried him now 
more than it worried Rosa. The notion of travel- 
ling in good style on the Continent tickled her fancy 
— she had long been eager to see Monte Carlo; it 
would be agreeable to mingle with such a fashion- 
able crowd as those whose departures for the En- 
gadine had been chronicled earlier in the year — and 
moreover, when his marriage had taken place there 
would be his own drawing-room accessible. Her 
perception of the truth was dim as yet; she was not 
a sensitive woman, and she attributed his procrasti- 
nation chiefly to moral cowardice. When he had his 
establishment in town, and was the host at balls and 
dinner parties, it appeared to her that he could shirk 
his duty to her no longer. 


171 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


The thought of this impending situation was pre- 
cisely what troubled Maurice. He realized that the 
difficulty had only been postponed, and that sooner 
or later he would have to meet her demand with a 
definite refusal. He stood as between two fires in 
the knowledge, and whether he turned to right or 
left, there would be a burning sense of guilt. 

It was no easy matter for him to violate his under- 
taking; he had never broken his word to anybody, 
and he did not conceal from himself that Rosa’s in- 
dignation would be warranted. That a wiser woman 
would have been content in her position was beside 
the matter; he had entered into a contract with her, 
and she was justified in requiring him to perform his 
part. It seemed to the obligant that Fate forbade 
him to be honest to anyone as “Philip Jardine,” even 
to his accomplice. 

That he might be staunch to her, at least, by offer- 
ing an indignity to Helen he saw clearly enough, 
and he saw that Helen would be quite untarnished 
by his action; but he would violate a score of con- 
tracts first! Since baseness was inevitable, he must 
be base to Rosa. He was menaced by a quandary 
which could have been averted only by his with- 
drawing from the engagement; and even this course, 
which did not present itself to him, could not have 
been adopted without casting some slur on the girl 
he revered. 


172 


THE WORLDLTNGS. 


He was fully aware that the predicament had had 
its origin in its own sin — the average fool could not 
have stated the fact more luminousfy in pronouncing 
judgment on him; but this was as irrelevant to his 
conduct to-day as the climate of Callao. Indeed, 
a lifetime is a very delicate possession, and to all men 
there should be given a second, with remembrance 
of the first: Alas! instead of a second youth, which 
would be exquisite, we have only a second 
childhood, which is painful. For the role that he 
was playing Maurice had valuable qualifications, 
but he lacked the most important one — callousness. 
His cynicism was verbal, not ingrained; he had re- 
viled the world while it turned its back upon him, 
but as soon as it opened its arms he forgave. The 
pricks and pangs that he had experienced were due 
to his setting at defiance a temperament which he 
had partially misunderstood. Many men in his 
place, hundreds and thousands of men, would have 
been more tranquil; the thought of distant heirs, 
unknown in the connection, did not present itself 
to him, and he had given an old man considerable 
happiness. But on Maurice the robe was a misfit. 
He had winced at the tokens of Sir Noel’s affection 
because he had grown fond of him; he had fallen 
in love — which the biggest scoundrel may do — 
but had had hours of torture because he was un- 
worthy to acknowledge it; he had resolved to treat 


i73 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


his partner badly, since there was no alternative, 
but tossed sleeplessly because he foresaw himself 
forsworn. 

Lady Wrensfordsley had offered to bring two 
thousand a year into settlement, but he had declared 
that it was quite unnecessary. At least Helen 
should owe to her acceptance of him nothing that 
he did not provide. The wedding, as he had said, 
was to be in March, and as the time approached the 
thought of it blotted all other considerations from 
his mind. The breath of fear which has sickened 
everybody during weeks of passionate foretaste 
made him yearn for the day’s birth with all his being. 
Many moments there were when, bewildered again 
by the whirlwind of his emotion, Maurice was liter- 
ally unable to realize that the effulgent future which 
he beheld could ever be; it seemed even more in- 
credible by reason of the self-suppression that he ex- 
ercised, by contrast with her distance from him now. 
It wasn’t such an engagement as, when fancy had 
run riot, he had sometimes pictured — not such an 
engagement as precedes a love match — he knew that 
in his maddest minutes. He knew that he would 
marry a girl who was making an “alliance,” who was 
no fonder of him than she had been on the morning 
when he first kissed her cheek. She was still a god- 
dess enthroned to him; but the world had narrowed 
to her dominion, and his heart swelled with rapture. 


i74 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


Never so ardently as he did now had he appreciated 
the possession of wealth. The pleasure of pouring 
presents upon her was the rarest luxury he had 
known, and he joyed to take trouble in acquir- 
ing something; to do more than go into a jeweler’s, 
or a fan-maker’s, or a florist’s, and select from the 
stock displayed. He would have bought Bond Street 
for her if he had been rich enough; but they were 
not always the most expensive gifts within his means 
which afforded him the greatest gratification. He 
had once devoted a day to the purchase of antique 
silver buttons, because Lady Wrensfordsley had 
casually observed in his hearing that they “would 
have looked much better on it.” His ultimate dis- 
covery of a set which was both of the right number 
and the right size delighted him as a successful mis- 
sion for the woman with whom he is in love ever de- 
lights a man. The considerate woman would pro- 
vide him with many opportunities for such delight, 
because the period of her power to do so is generally 
brief. 

The stream of wedding presents, from Sir Noel’s 
parure of diamonds to the jade paper-cuttef of an 
acquaintance — still more, the delivery of the brides- 
maids’ bracelets — helped Maurice to feel that the 
date was actually drawing near. Helen had less 
leisure for reverie; in the interval between her ceas- 
ing to be her own and realizing that she was his it 

175 


> 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


seemed to her that she belonged to nobody but mo- 
distes and milliners. Not since she had been pre- 
sented had the formulae of fashion fatigued her so 
much. Lady Wrensfordsley was tremulous with tri- 
umph and in a position to be prodigal, and she gave 
with both hands. Her rope of pearls was as perfect 
as the neck it was meant for, and the girl’s frocks 

cost a fortune. Her wedding gown It was 

described at the time; in retrospection Maurice sup- 
posed that she wore white. 

He only knew that it was she — that the incredible 
had happened — that he had a heart, thumping, 
thumping in his breast! Subsidiary figures presum- 
ably performed their duty. She was “given away” — 
Almighty God! — to hint. His soul rushed to her 
clasp. He knelt, praying in a prayer without words 
that God would be tender to her, that regret should 
never touch her life. “Pardon, O God! Pardon me, 
pardon me!” his spirit uttered it a hundred times; 
and next he prayed, “Damn me forever, God, so that 
I live the lie out — so that my sin won’t harm her!” 
The book was closed. People shook hands with him. 
The solemnity of the organ filled the church, the 
hour, and the Universe. They were husband and 
wife! Was it Oakenhurst, or Heaven? He was 
alone with her, and could have sobbed thanksgiv- 
ing. They had reached the house. The wine buzzed 
on his palate tastelessly, and he heard the voices, 


A 


1 76 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


and his own voice, from afar. The room seemed 
very full, but only Helen’s face was clear. The room 
seemed empty — Helen had disappeared. How long 
she was absent! Something must be wrong. His 
gaze devoured her when she entered: she had been 
crying; she was dressed to go away with him — to 
go away with him! the sight of her hat thrilled his 
blood. Now the wrench was over for her — they 
were on the steps at last; and the door of the car- 
riage had been closed again. 


/ 




CHAPTER XIII. 


They had arrived only a few hours since, and 
their relation to each other, even the aspect of the 
lamp-lit room, and the sound of the servants’ names 
were strange to them as yet. They had been din- 
ing, and were still at the table, dallying with des- 
sert. A little silence had fallen between them, and 
the woman sat trying to feel at home. 

Stranger than he, and than all besides, was the 
sense of unfamiliarity with herself. She struggled 
with it constantly, but from this she could not es- 
cape; she was as foreign to herself in solitude as in 
his arms. It seemed to her that marriage meant 
the surrender of everything, even one’s identity. 

“What are you thinking of, dearest?” said Mau- 
rice. 

“Was I thinking?” she returned; “I am not sure 
that I was.” She rose with a suppressed sigh, and 
moved slowly to the window. “How divine!” she 
murmured. 

“Shall we go out there?” he asked. “Shall we go 
and look at the sea? We have everything to ex- 
plore, sweetheart; let us begin by losing ourselves 
in the garden.” 


178 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

She smiled assent, and he held the window open 
for her. 

“But wait,” he said. “You had better have a 
wrap.” 

“The night is too warm,” she said, looking back 
over her shoulder; “no, come — I want to go now, 
as we are!” 

He obeyed her instantly, and they descended to- 
gether. Indeed, the scented air was as gentle as a 
caress, and under the vivid moon the garden was 
a fairyland filled with a thousand delights and 
invitations. For some moments neither spoke; 
they wandered along a winding walk from which 
they could see the silver quiver of the waves. 
Where the path ended they discovered that the 
owners of the villa had devised a seat, embowered 
in myrtles, and overhung by the pink blossom of 
an almond tree. The view from it was sublime, 
and Maurice and she remained lost in contempla- 
tion. Presently Helen, who was sitting, lifted her 
eyes to him, and with a quick gesture of authority, 
which he found enchanting, motioned him to the 
space beside her. 

“Doesn’t it make one grateful for one’s sight?” 
she said. 

“I am wishing,” said he, “that you had never 
seen it before. To me it’s so breathlessly new; I 
should like it to be new to you!” 


179 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“It is new,” she said, “it is always new. And 
this garden is a dream! Look at the oranges — 
why are they so much daintier while they grow 
than when they’re picked? And how black that 
cypress! it makes the moonlight whiter.” 

“Over your head,” said Maurice, “is a branch of 
almond blossom that makes your features fairer.” 

“It must be very becoming,” she replied, flashing 
fun at him; “I saw it when I sat down.” 

“Ah,” he exclaimed, “how beautiful it is to hear 
you speak to me like that!” 

“So vainly?” 

“So frankly! I should like you to have a million 
vanities, that you might show me every one of 
them.” 

“If you aren’t more sensible your wish is likely 
to come true. Do men find women’s vanities so 
charming, then?” 

What do I know,” he said, “of other men and 
women? There are only you and I in the world!” 

She laughed softly, not displeased. “Then are 
mine so charming? ‘And if so, why?’ Did you 
have the ‘Child’s Guide to Knowledge’ when you 
were a little boy?” 

Yes, it was fat and short, I can remember it. 
Because they would help me to understand that 
you are mortal.” 

180 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“Ah,” she said, “I shall become more mortal to 
you every day, don’t fear!” 

“Is it a promise?” he asked. 

“It is a warning,” she said. 

For answer he clasped her hand, and retained it 
until the misgiving stirred her that their attitude 
resembled that of the couples she had seen about 
the lanes of Oakenhurst. She released herself to 
point far away across the sea. 

“Are those the lights of Nice?” she said. 

He understood her motive, and was annoyed 
with himself for having embarrassed her. She 
realized his feeling, and knew a pang of self-re- 
proach that she was not in love with him. 

“When I was a boy,” said Maurice, breaking 
another silence, “you weren’t born. . . How 

stupid that sounds, and it is hardly what I meant! 
I mean that when you were a little child, I was a 
man; I was twenty when you were five. And yet 
it seems such a little while ago that I was twenty!” 

“I can remember myself at five,” said Helen; “I 
was a little dear. You would have liked me.” 

“I am jealous of your memories,” he said; “and 
I am startled by my own experience. At twenty I 
had been through so much, and you were running 
about in a pinafore. It doesn’t seem right — or 
real!” 

She did not follow him here, for the wonderment 
181 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


was essentially a lover’s; it was a matter of sensa- 
tion which figures were powerless to convey. 
Maurice instinctively felt this, and perceiving that 
in giving the thought utterance he had indulged his 
own mood rather than sought to enter into hers, 
he added quickly: 

“Helen, you and I must have a model honey- 
moon; but I want to ask you an immense favour.” 

“I’ll grant it in advance,” she said. 

“No, no; that is just what you mustn’t do; I 
want you to promise me on your honour not to be 
considerate! Be anything else you please — capri- 
cious, exacting, ill-humoured — but don’t be consid- 
erate. When I am boring you, let me see it, and 
help me to be tactful; when you want me to go 
away, say so; and I’ll worship out of sight. Treat 
me as a friend, and the most trying time in your life 
won’t be so hard for you. Ever since we started 
I’ve been haunted by the fear that you would wish 
the honeymoon were over; be honest with me, and 
let me make it as little tedious to you as I can; that 
will be the greatest, the very highest manifestation 
of faith in my love for you that is possible.” 

These words, the sincerity with which they were 
spoken, touched her, and she slid her hand into his 
again. 

“No, no,” he repeated, setting it loose, “let us 
keep the compact! You don’t want to be senti- 
182 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


mental; just now you would rather forget that I 
am here.” 

“You refuse to take my hand?” she exclaimed, 
astonished. 

“Ah,” said Maurice, “it isn’t fair to put it like 
that! Say that I know such demonstrations rather 
jar upon you.” 

“But it is my hand!” she murmured, half laugh- 
ing, half in earnest; “mine!” 

“You don’t really want me to hold it,” he said; 
“I know you don’t!” And recovering his ordinary 
tone, he spoke of other things. She answered in 
the same key, and was the brighter lest he should 
suspect that there was a grain of chagrin in her 
mind. What he said had been quite true, but that 
he had had the resolution to act upon the knowl- 
edge piqued her, even while it heightened her re- 
spect for him. 

Again there came a long pause, while she was 
acutely conscious of his proximity. She was moved 
by deeper thoughts than she had hitherto known. 
The responsibilities of life, which had long hovered 
at the portal, gathered on the threshold, and sud- 
denly a man’s devotion presented itself to her as a 
thing so strange that she trembled. 

“I wish I were worthier,” she said; “I have never 
understood.” 


183 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

Shame convulsed him, and for some seconds he 
could not reply. 

“ 'Worthier’!” he said at last hoarsely; “God, if 
you only knew!” 

She shook her head; “I know enough. I know 
what I am to you, I think, and it frightens me. 
Why am I all that, Philip? Shall I ever be able to 
‘live up’ to the Illusion that you have put the ring 
on?” 

“Be yourself,” he said, “there is no more for you 
to do.” 

“I am full of faults,” she said painfully; “no, let 
me speak! I am just like any other girl. I have 
never had any high ideals — oh, believe me, because 
it’s true! I haven’t! I’ve lived for my frocks, and 
I’ve been flattered by admiration, and — and I 
shouldn’t have married you if you had been a poor 
man. Let me speak! You fell in love with my 
face — why should I pretend? I’ve been told that I 
had beauty all my life. I understood that I was a 
beauty when I was in the schoolroom; I’ve heard 
the shape of my nose and the length of my eye- 
lashes talked of since I was a child. But under 
this face of mine, dear, I am so commonplace, so 
exactly the same as anybody else, and — and I’m 
afraid of being found out, and disappointing you, 
and yet I want you to know it. Let me speak! If 
you had married me as most men marry, I could 


184 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


have given you what you asked — I should have 
been all you wanted — and it would have been all 
right; but you have exalted me so! I saw it while 
we were engaged, and now I see it more plainly 
that I did. Oh! I am talking all round what I 
mean — I will say it : I am not capable of — of caring 
for anyone as you care for me — I am too trivial!” 

“You have never seemed to me so sweet, so fine, 
so adorable as you do now!” said Maurice. “Does 
that answer you?” 

Her voice had broken, and he had the impression 
of a long interval before he heard it again. Their 
hands lay together once more, and he bent down to 
her inquiringly. 

“There are many marvels,” she said; “there are 
marvels wherever we turn; the stars, and the 
mountains, and the flowers, and the sea — but to- 
night the way a man thinks of the woman he loves 
seems to me the greatest of them.” Her fingers 
responded to him. “You hold it as if it were sacred,” 
she smiled; “and it has been manicured since I was 
twelve! Until I was old enough to rebel I was put 
to bed in gloves.” 

“Even the gloves,” said Maurice, “they would be 
sacred, too!” 

“O, sea and stars,” she laughed, “humble your- 
selves, and hide!” She regarded him wonderingly. 
“What have I ever said to you? Look back to the 


185 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


commencement — to the day you first met me! 
Philip, a schoolgirl could have said as much. My 
face, only my face! You have never seen my mind 
at all. Why have you loved me?” 

“Can you question my love for you — nothing 
else matters?” 

“No,” she said; “I think that — it would be very 
foolish of you — that you would give me your life.” 

His gaze thanked her. “What I am going to say 
sounds mad, but in distant aeons, while we were 
engaged ” 

“What are aeons?” said she; “I have only seen 
them in print.” 

“They were my period in purgatory before an 
oversight let me into Heaven. I say that while we 
were engaged I used to wish, among many wishes 
— and among many prayers — that these were the 
days when heroes were made by physical strength, 
and that I could go to attempt something Hercu- 
lean for you, and come back with a trophy. Why 
don’t you command me to get you something, 
Helen! What shall I bring?” 

She pointed out into the garden, where the mi- 
mosa hung motionless in the mellow night: 

“ ‘ Father , said Beauty, bring me a rose!' ” 

Then the man plucked roses, and brought them 
to the woman’s lap, and fastened the fairest in her 
breast. 


1 86 


CHAPTER XIV. 


And long afterwards, when she slept, his mind 
reiterated words that she had spoken, and her wish 
that she were worthier of his love wrung him 
again. For himself there was no sleep; his eyes 
ached for lack of it, and their lids were heavy, but 
conscience had never been more wakeful, and his 
brain worked with the persistence of the watch 
which ticked beside the bed. Once he bit his lips 
to stifle a groan that had escaped him, but the 
sound had reached her dream, and for an instant 
he feared that he had roused her; the light of early 
morning was entering the room; and, holding his 
breath, he gazed at her haggardly until her face 
turned upon the pillow, and was hidden from him 
by her hair. 

The day was bright before he lost consciousness, 
but on the breakfast table were more blossoms 
beside her plate, and a parcel of new books that, all 
unknown to her, he had brought for her enliven- 
ment. The idea of surprising her with these had 
occurred to him early in the engagement, and the 
binding of each was a work of art; ephemeral fic- 
tion had seldom worn so delicate a dress. 


187 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


In the morning the sea was brilliant, and the 
myrtles made the seat a haven of shade. Awaiting 
their moods of energy were the nearer of the hill 
villages, and the still nearer charms of the olive 
woods. The immediate neighborhood, too, within 
driving distance of Monte Carlo, but not numbered 
among the resorts of the fashionable world, was 
quite unfamiliar to her, and each saunter that she 
took with him beyond the garden discovered a 
fresh and quaint attraction. The novelty of the 
scenes to the man, still more his keenness of ob- 
servation, enhanced their interest to his compan- 
ion, and when they had been installed in the villa a 
week, she was startled to reflect how quickly seven 
days had sped. 

As for Maurice, he would have asked nothing 
better than to be allowed to pass the rest of his life 
with her here. Before long the thought of their re- 
turn to London presented itself to him almost as 
the end of Eden, and the pathos of leave-taking was 
foreshadowed by every sunset. Something like 
dread oppressed him when, in projecting the repe- 
tition of a ramble that had delighted them, they 
commenced to say: “Let us go again to-morrow, 
for we mayn’t have another chance!” 

They were to make their home in the house in 
Prince s Gardens, and when the honeymoon had 
.waned, and the roar of London met their ears, and 


1 88 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


the rain of London splashed before their eyes, the 
season was beginning. To Helen their return was 
far more agreeable than to him. The arrangement 
of the rooms, her invitations, and the sense of her 
new power all amused her. There were her mother 
and her friends to welcome, a hundred things to 
do; she felt very young during the first month in 
town. Maurice knew no eagerness to welcome 
anybody, and, excepting Lady Wrensfordsley and 
Sir Noel, who paid his earliest visit to the house as 
a guest, their visitors bored him considerably. 

A letter from Rosa might be looked for by any 
post, and Maurice quailed in anticipation of meet- 
ing her again. The thought of her had been odious 
to him latterly, and partly because of his new aver- 
sion, partly in fear that their next interview would 
confront him with the most horrible task in his ex- 
perience, he had from day to day postponed the 
requisite call upon her. He did not fail to tell him- 
self that this aversion was ungrateful and unjust; 
but it had been forming in his mind gradually, and 
almost unperceived, since their last conversation, 
and now he hated to reflect that there was a person 
who knew that Helen bore a name to which she 
had no right. 

When the note arrived, Rosa’s delay in summon- 
ing him was explained by the fact that she, too, had 
been to the Riviera. She had, indeed, nursed some 
189 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


hope that a happy encounter would have effected 
her introduction to Helen already, but the disap- 
pointment had damped her very slightly. Before 
her departure she had engaged a French maid, who 
spoke a little English, and, for once, she had en- 
joyed herself. She had lingered in Paris before 
the crossing, and, but for her visions of flunkeys 
displaying paradise, would have remained there 
longer still. 

Maurice was received with an amiability which 
was almost, if not entirely, genuine. She informed 
him that she had made several acquaintances dur- 
ing her absence, and had won twenty pounds at 
the tables; she had a system — she had found it out 
herself — it was so simple that she was surprised it 
hadn't been discovered before! In Paris she had 
bought hats, and a lot of gloves scented with violets 
— the perfume was everlasting; somebody had told 
her that they could not be obtained anywhere else. 
London was abominable! She shrugged her shoul- 
ders at it with a grimace, and looked much as if she 
would like to say “Mon Dieu!” 

“And you?" she inquired, in a tone perhaps a 
shade less genial. “I suppose you're very happy 
so far, eh?" 

“I married an angel," said Maurice, for answer. 

“I suppose most men do! Well, when am I going 
190 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

to see her? Have you mentioned me to her, I 
wonder ?” 

“No,” he murmured, “I haven’t.” 

Her eyebrows rose. “Well, make haste,” she 
said. “Everything comes to one who waits — even 
your marriage! You don’t need me to tell you that 
now it’s quite easy for you to make things solid at 
once? All you have to do is to get your wife to ask 
me to your own house; the rest will follow, if she 
asks me often enough.” 

“Look here,” said Maurice. “I — I want to talk 
to you about this — I’ve been thinking about it. 
You see the difficulty!” 

“The difficulty?” she echoed, staring at him. 
“What difficulty? I know you can pile up difficul- 
ties as well as any man I’ve met, but if you’ve found 
another now, you’re a marvel.” 

“Listen to me patiently,” he begged. “Put your- 
self in my place, and try to understand what I feel. 
My wife is more to me than I can faintly suggest; 
I reverence her; my love for her is a religion. You 
know what we said when I told you that I cared 
for her: we said that, thinking about her in the way 
I did, I should shudder at myself each time I kissed 
her. Well, I have moments, and many hours, worse 
than we foresaw — or I think they’re worse — awful 
hours! But sometimes I forget — 'forget’ isn’t the 
right word, but you know what I mean — some- 
191 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


times the joy is fiercer than the shame, and I’m 
happy as a drunkard is happy while his bout lasts. 
If you were her friend, even her acquaintance, if 
you came to the house, if I heard her speak of you 
— well! you must understand that I could never 
forget for a single instant — my imposture would be 
flaring before me every minute of my life — I 
couldn’t bear it!” She made a movement as if to 
interrupt him. "I want to implore you to waive 
your rights; I want you to leave me what I’ve got!” 

She was breathing hard, and now that she 
had the opportunity, she found it difficult to reduce 
her sudden rage to phrases. Maurice was intensely 
relieved that he had bethought himself of a way to 
avoid humiliating her; half the truth had served, 
though the suppression of his other reason de- 
prived him of all defence. He sat waiting for the 
storm to burst. 

“So,” she gasped, “you are a liar, eh? You have 
been lying to me all the time? You meant to break 
your word to me from the beginning?” 

“That isn’t so,” he said. “When I passed my 
word I meant to keep it. I didn’t understand. . . 
I didn’t realize what the life would be.” 

. “You meant to keep it? When — how long ago? 
You have fooled me twenty times over. You cheat, 
to double on me!” 

He had whitened painfully, but his tone did not 


192 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


lose its note of appeal. “I explained to you why I 
could do nothing while I was a stranger in society 
myself. If I could have helped you then, I would 
have done it.” 

“You can help me now!” 

“Afterwards it became more difficult still.” 

“When you fell in love!” she said with a harsh 
laugh. 

“I have done the most for you that I could do — 
that any decent man could have done. I swear it!” 

“ ‘Decent’!” 

“You can say what you like to me. Of course, 
I’m quite at your mercy.” 

“I don’t want to hear of any of your heroics. 
‘Yes’ or ‘no,’ that’s all that’s necessary. Are you 
going to keep your promise, or aren’t you?” 

“I can’t,” said Maurice. 

“You refuse?” 

“I entreat you to let me off!” 

“Oh!” she exclaimed; “I want plain English. Do 
you refuse?” 

“If you force me to it,” he said, “I must.” 

She stood looking at him speechlessly. Then t 
she began to beat her hands together, and her 
voice came in jerks. 

“I wish that I had left you the beggar I found 
you,” she said; “I do! I’d rather have starved, my- 
self, than given a fortune to you. You blackguard, 

*93 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

you cowardly blackguard, to turn your back on me 
after Eve ‘made’ you!” 

“I shall never turn my back on you! You know 
it!” 

“I don’t want to talk to you. Go! I hope I 
shan’t see you again. Your conscience, eh? I 
should trouble your conscience if I came? It’s a 
fine ‘conscience,’ on my soul! It doesn’t trouble 
you to know that you’ve behaved like a scoundrel 
to me. You’ve got everything, haven’t you! and 
so you can snap your fingers at me. I suppose 
you think I ought to be grateful that you give me 
what you do? When are you going to cheat me 
over that as well — perhaps your miraculous wife 
will cost more than you think, and you won’t be 
able to ‘afford’ so much? Treasures like her must 
be expensive! But take care! I warn you, you 
aren’t dealing with a child. If I have a penny less 
than my share now, or a penny less than five thou- 
sand a year when the old man dies, it shall be the 
dearest money that you ever stole!” 

“You needn’t fear that I shall try to rob you,” he 
said quietly. 

“You have robbed me,” she cried; “you’ve robbed 
me of my chance. What are you waiting for? I 
told you to go.” 

He wiped his face dry with his handkerchief, and 
got up. 


194 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“Good-by,” he said; “I deserve all you say — 
there’s no answer I can make. I shall always send 
you the checks honestly; if you ever want to see 
me, I’ll come.” 

She did not reply, nor did she turn her head as he 
crossed the room. She heard him fumbling with 
the door-knob, and then the sound that told her 
she was alone. An hysterical impulse seized her to 
shriek after him down the staircase, and she set her 
teeth hard in her handkerchief until his footsteps 
had died away. In the heat of her passion, what 
she had said was still true, and she felt that she 
would rather have submitted to privation than 
have shown Maurice the way to wealth. The 
thought of his wife seethed in her; his marriage 
had ruined every hope that she had formed! He 
had had the intention of playing her false from the 
time he fell in love with the girl, she was convinced 
of it; from the time he fell in love his standpoint 
had changed — he had wanted to shake himself 
clear of the past, to deceive himself into believing 
in his own respectability! 

It was not until the evening that she was able to 
approach the subject of her future movements, and 
then the idea that Maurice would rejoice if she died 
relieved her slightly, by reason of her exuberant 
health. Of course he must be praying that some- 
thing might happen to her — the secret, and the 


i95 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


money would be entirely his own then! She had 
not thought of that before. She trusted that she 
would live to be ninety if only to spite him. The 
five thousand a year must come to her very soon, 
and, bitter though her disappointment was, she 
would, at least, be in possession of a dazzling in- 
come. 

The question was what she should do with her- 
self now. The term for which she had obtained the 
flat had almost expired, and she had meant to take 
another somewhere else, and to ask him for the 
loan of a few hundred pounds in order to furnish it. 
It was a pity that she had not asked him by letter a 
week or two ago; he would probably have been 
very glad of a chance to propitiate her! In the cir- 
cumstances she did not think she should take a flat 
at all; there was no reason for her to remain in 
London. She could always apprise him of her ad- 
dress when a check was due; and with Emilie to 
get the tickets, and direct the cabmen, and to sit re- 
spectfully next her on occasion, it would be infi- 
nitely livelier on the Continent. 

But to concentrate her mind on such matters was 
beyond her so early, and anger recurred and mas- 
tered her again and again. The thought of the in- 
terview kept her awake, as it was keeping Maurice 
awake, and she lay cursing him, and the wife who 
was beside him, and all that was his. 


196 


CHAPTER XV. 


Sometimes Maurice looked at his wife across a 
ballroom, and found it almost as difficult to realize 
their relation to each other as he had done when 
they left the church together on their wedding-day. 
That after four months of matrimony there could 
still be moments when his possession of her seemed 
incredible to him was a very extraordinary thing, 
and if his love had been a shade less strong, it would 
have been an entirely desirable thing. The fact 
was due to various circumstances; she was one of 
the most beautiful women in England; he had 
never time to grow accustomed to any one of the 
frocks she wore; and money permitted them the 
elegancies and refinements of life which are as 
necessary to sustain sexual illusion as is a hot- 
house to preserve an exotic. There was another 
reason; the vague promise which during the honey- 
moon he had more than once detected in her eyes, 
and caught in her voice, had remained unfulfilled; 
their return to society had been made too soon, 
and her emotions were still nascent. She liked 
him; she liked him much better than she had 


197 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


thought she would like him, but between the woman 
and her potentialities the influence of the world had 
been interposed — her own “world,” the little frivo- 
lous section which she had been taught to regard 
as all. 

One day he told her so. She had not long come 
in from her drive, and they were having tea in the 
boudoir. Maurice never entered it unless he was 
invited, and this afternoon she had suggested his 
joining her there. By a mere impulse which she 
regretted the moment it was obeyed, she asked 
him if he was content. 

“Content?” he said; “I suppose a man who 
idolizes a woman as I idolize you can hardly ex- 
pect contentment. I am intensely grateful, at all 
events!” He saw that she was annoyed, and he 
looked at her penitently. “I’ve vexed you?” 

“Oh, not at all. It’s very flattering to hear that 
I’m still adored so much.” 

“I have vexed you,” he repeated. “Put out your 
hand, and say you forgive me.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Philip,” she said; “what 
have I to forgive? . . . Agatha Savile is going 

to be married, did I tell you? She is going to 
marry Percy Bligh.” 

“Is she?” said Maurice; “what a fool he must 
be.” 

“I don’t know; Agatha is considered very at- 
198 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


tractive. You used to find her attractive yourself, 
didn’t you? I remember when we saw you in 
Chapel Street we thought it was going to be an en- 
gagement.” 

“Between her and me? I was in love with you 
then.” 

“It was the first time I had seen you, the after- 
noon I mean,” she returned indifferently. 

“I know it was; all the same I was in love with 
you then. I didn’t understand it, but I was. I 
thought of you all the evening, and wished I hadn’t 
been so stupid. You began to talk about buns, 
and I couldn’t find anything to say.” 

“I talked about buns? Really? How brilliant 
of me; no wonder I made an impression!” 

“And after I had gone you thought I was going 
to marry Agatha Savile? Good heavens! But 
I wish I had known it — I didn’t suppose you were 
remembering me at all.” 

“Well, we thought that Agatha thought so!” she 
said; “and I dare say she would have made you 
very happy. Perhaps it’s a pity you didn’t! . . . 

What a clatter there is from that mews — these 
houses are absurdly arranged!” 

“A pity for which of us, you or me?” 

“Oh, for you, of course. I’m content enough!” 
she answered with the slightest shrug. 

Maurice left his chair and seated himself on the 


199 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


couch by her side. She did not turn to him, and 
there was a pause in which his view of her profile 
was not encouraging. 

“I’m going to explain myself,” he said; “I’m not 
going to leave you the right to speak to me in that 
tone! You shall know just what I meant — how 
much, and how little. I wish you’d look at me; I 
can only see the tip of your nose, and your eye- 
lashes!” 

She looked towards him reluctantly, like a child 
who is dreading a rebuke. 

“Well?” she murmured, folding her hands. 
“Does that suit you better? I know all you're 
going to say — that I'm cold and horrid, and I don’t 
deserve anything at all!” 

“Helen,” he said, “when I asked you to be my 
wife I knew you didn’t care for me as I cared for 
you; I knew it; but I hoped that the force of my 
love would rouse yours. I thought I could make 
you love me, because by everything I did, by every 
word I spoke to you, in our life together, you would 
understand that I worshipped you!” 

She nodded. The tip of her nose and the curve 
of her cheek were again all that he could see. There 
was a bowl of heliotrope against the couch — there 
always was — and its scent seemed to grow 
stronger, and confuse him. 

“While we were away I believed that my hope 


200 


THE WORLDLINGS, 


was going to be fulfilled. There isn’t a shade of 
leproach in my mind; you are — you are charming; 
but before we came back to town you were some- 
times more than ‘charming/ I think if I could 
have kept you all to myself my dream might have 
come partly true — I think you might have grown 
fonder of me. . . . That’s all. You know I’d 

rather be tolerated by you than loved by any other 
woman.” 

Her fingers were playing an imaginary staccato 
passage on her lap, and after a moment she said, 
in a voice that trembled between contrition and 
defiance: 

“I have done my best; it’s not my fault; I can’t 
help it if I’m not nice.” 

“You say it as if I had blamed you,” said 
Maurice. “I know it’s not your fault; it’s the fault 
of the life we lead — it doesn’t give me a chance. 
What do I see of you? You are out alone, or we 
are out together, or there are people here — you 
belong to society more than to me; we live in a 
crowd. At four o’clock in the morning, when you 
are tired, it is my privilege to bring you home.” 

“One has to do things,” she faltered; “you don’t 
want me to neglect our duties? Besides, soon I — 
I shan’t be able to go out so much. Don’t be cross 
with me yet, Philip. If you knew how frightened 
I am!” 


201 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


Maurice caught her to him, and they sat silent, 
both thinking, while he stroked her hair. He had 
hoped that they would be spared a child; since he 
had known that he was expected to rejoice, he had 
hoped that at least they might not have a son; and 
suddenly his heart tightened with the fear that 
the undesired life might rob him of the woman’s. 
Till now he had not thought of that. He was 
ashamed that he had had the cruelty to own she 
was not perfect; she might die! Her breath was 
on his neck; and when the spring came she might 
be breathless and stone cold; perhaps a boy would 
have entered the world, to bear a title to which he 
had no right, and Helen would be in her grave. If, 
during the few minutes that Maurice sat there 
holding her in his arms, a prayer could have un- 
done their marriage, he would have kissed her for 
the last time and uttered it. 

He never remonstrated with her again about her 
amusements. The fear of losing her couldn’t be 
banished, and there was often something terrible 
to him in the sound of her laughter, in her loveli- 
ness itself. Let her lead the life that pleased her 
best! He attempted to view the situation from 
her own standpoint, and he felt that he had been 
selfish and exigent from the first; she had never 
affected to be fond of him — his continual appeals 


202 


THE WORLDLINGS, 

to a tenderness that she couldn’t force must have 
wearied her beyond endurance. 

It was at this period that remorse commenced to 
wrench the man body and soul. He was no longer 
gripped by it in hours; it racked him without ces- 
sation. If she died! No one would know — people 
would condole with him — in the eyes of her mother, 
of everybody, he would be a bereaved husband — 
but in his own sight he would have murdered her. 
As surely as he had been a villain to make her his 
wife, he would be her murderer if she died. Why 
hadn’t he conquered the temptation, why hadn’t he 
died himself before he fell to it! 

His guilt haunted him. It was with him as he 
watched her smiles where the newest band was 
playing the latest valse; it menaced him at “At 
Homes” while a comedian was being humorous at 
the piano; he saw it in the dusk of the skirt-filled 
brougham, heavy with flowers’ scent, as they were 
borne through the empty streets from one hot 
drawing-room to another. And if she lived, what 
then would he have gained by such a marriage? 
At any moment now he would have undone it had 
the past been recoverable. To him it had given 
minutes of delirium, and her it had profaned and 
bored. He knew that if he had always loved her 
as he did to-day he wouldn’t have taken her as she 
had come to him; it was horrible to love her so, 


203 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


and to feel that she only yielded to him by con- 
straint. There was never a dawn when her lips 
bade him “Good night,” and he lay staring into the 
dim luxury of the room, that he would not have 
thanked God to know he would wake alone, in the 
room with the mud floor in Du Toit’s Pan — wake 
to see the sunlight on the morning after Rosa 
Fleming’s proposal to him, and to find that all the 
rest had been a dream. 


204 


CHAPTER XVI. 


He had heard from Rosa once since their rup- 
ture — she had written a few curt lines from Paris 
on the subject of her forthcoming “dividend,” as 
she called it. In August he received an intimation 
concerning the payment due on the first of Sep- 
tember, and by the second note he learned that she 
was in Aix-les-Bains. 

In October he and Helen went to spend a few 
weeks at Whichcote, and to Helen, seven months 
married, life in her former home was very suggest- 
ive. She wanted to tell him what she felt, but her 
impressions eluded her as soon as her tongue tried 
to touch them. Her words implied that she had 
found the past much sweeter than the present, and 
this wasn’t what she meant. She knew so well 
what she meant that she demanded divination, and 
was aggrieved. - 

Of Seymour she had neither seen nor thought 
much since her marriage, but now, in this house, 
the recollection of the feeling she had for him was 
a frequent vexation to her. Reviewing the young 
man who had dined once or twice at Prince’s Gar- 


205 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


dens, he seemed a different person from the cousin 
with whom Whichcote was associated in her mind. 
It astonished her to realize how stupid she had 
been about him; it astonished her still more to 
realize how recently she had been stupid. 

To Maurice, Oakenhurst was merely painful — 
additionally painful because the baronet’s eager- 
ness for a grandson necessitated his affecting to 
share the hope; to the woman there was a magic in 
every familiar sound and scent. 

One morning, before the sun had risen, the trill- 
ing of a bird roused her, and though she could not 
guess what bird it was, its notes requickened all 
the sentiment of her childhood; in sensation she 
was a child once more. And then gradually, while 
the bird called, her bosom swelled with an infinite 
yearning, or with ecstasy — the moments were in- 
effable — and her eyes filled with tears. She caught 
the notes again some hours later, and longed for 
the emotion that uplifted her when all save herself 
and the bird had slept; but she strove vainly to 
recover it, and, in the hum of noon, could not even 
remember of what it was she had been made to 
think. On the morrow, too, she woke to the en- 
chantment, and henceforth woke to wait for it. A 
shyness she could not account for compelled her to 
keep the strange joy a secret, but she never failed 
to listen for the high, clear call to thrill the silence 


206 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


above the sleeping lawn; and the bird and the soul 
of the woman sang together every day. 

Lady Wrensfordsley said to Maurice: “Philip, 
you look worse and worse; I wish you would go up 
to town and see a doctor.” 

“It is nothing,” he answered; “I am anxious 
about her, that’s all.” 

“But you’re absurd,” she said; “I never heard 
anything so foolish. You will worry yourself into 
a serious illness if you aren’t careful; and you’ll 
alarm her besides.” 

He took the hint, and Helen never suspected 
that he feared for her life, nor that he dreaded the 
thing for which he was supposed to hope. In her 
own breast there was no longer fear. Solitude 
charmed her, and she had moods in which she loved 
to escape to the room that had been her nursery, 
and to sit at the window, with a book which she 
never read, gazing between the bars. In imagina- 
tion she was a mother already, and her lips formed 
kisses, and her arms were filled. A son? Yes, for 
Philip’s sake, she would like a son! But for her 
own, she cared little; it was enough that it would 
be her child — a girl would be as wondrous as a 
boy. She would have loathed herself in remem- 
bering that she had once trembled with aversion, 
but that it seemed to her the frivolous girl who 
trembled had been somebody else. 


207 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


As the year drew near its close a richer happi- 
ness than she had ever known pervaded her, and 
her mind turned to Maurice with a strange persist- 
ence. She liked him to caress her; she noticed that 
he caressed her less often than he had done; one 
day she cried a little at the thought that she had, 
perhaps, estranged him by her tepidity; but his 
manner towards her was so tender that she dis- 
missed the idea as morbid, although she remained 
conscious of a subtle difference in him. 

She felt that he had always been more to her 
than she had expressed. In intercourse with the 
Ego there are few revelations; the sincere diarist 
does not write, “This afternoon my feelings began 
to change”: she felt that he had always been more 
to her than she had expressed. A shallow confi- 
dant would have told her that this was the com- 
mencement of love, but it would have been untrue; 
it was the commencement of self-knowledge. 

When the new year was three months old the 
man’s fear for her had culminated in an agony of 
needless terror, and he was congratulated on the 
birth of a son. Every cry that had reached him 
had torn his heart; he had prayed that he might 
writhe in hell if his torments would spare her a 
pang. He fell on his knees — scarcely knowing that 
he did so — and thanked God that she was safe; 
he supplicated that his sin should never be visited 


208 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


upon his child. Now on the preservation of his se- 
cret depended the peace of the wife whom he had 
bought, and the future of the boy who might grow 
to love him. He crept up the staircase guiltily to 
look at them. Like the eyes of all infants, the 
baby’s were old with wisdom, and Maurice could 
imagine that there was comprehension in their 
gaze. 

Again and again he repented the steps that had 
ied him from the overseer’s billet to Prince’s Gar- 
dens. Alone in the room that was called the 
smoking-room, at the end of the hall, he sat and 
thought. He had won all that he had wished for— 
the wealth and the woman — and he was more 
wretched than when he had lacked a dinner. He 
wondered whether he would have repented if he 
had avoided marriage ; he had been content enough 
in the early days in Bury Street! Would it have 
lasted, that sensual satisfaction, or would con- 
science have cursed him anyhow in time? He could 
not say, but he knew that, as it was, his Nemesis 
had arisen from his love. From the moment the 
woman quickened his higher self his punishment 
had begun. The growth of shame, the yearning 
to undo, the hopelessness in which he had held her 
body and hungered for her soul — always through 
her his sufferings! 

The consciousness might have turned a feebler 


209 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


love to hatred; it heightened Maurice’s devotion 
to her. A feebler love might have reflected that a 
woman who married for convenience was less pure 
than a man who was mastered by passion; Maurice 
had not married from passion, but he felt that their 
union would have degraded him even had he been 
worthy of her, and he would see no speck on his 
wife — she belonged to a world in which marriages 
of convenience were usual. In his darkness there 
was only one pale gleam of comfort — he had ceased 
to importune her for affection, and she would have 
the tranquillity that she was entitled to expect. 
“It is not my fault — I can’t help it!” she had said, 
and he had never forgotten the words; they 
sounded more piteous to him each time that he 
recalled them. No, she could not help it! He had 
been an ingrate to complain of what he had been so 
eager to acquire! 

Upstairs she lay thinking of her baby and him. 
The love of a parent for a new-born infant is ego- 
tism, but it is egotism sublimed. To Helen’s out- 
look the little living bundle was transfiguring; life 
took a new aspect, as a landscape changes at sun- 
rise, and the light of the child shone on every hour 
that she foresaw. 

That strange things appeared so natural was the 
strangest feature of this time. She listened for 
Maurice’s hand on the door-knob, and knew no 


210 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


surprise at her wistfulness; she smiled to hear him 
enter the room — the door was hidden from her 
where she lay — without reflecting that the pleasure 
was a novel one; before he was admitted in the 
morning she parted with the mirror slowly, and 
it astonished the nurses much more than her that 
she was never so fastidious as when the expected 
visitor was Her husband. 

The fulfillment of his desire elated Sir Noel 
mightily, and seventy-eight though he was, he 
travelled to town to shake silver bells at his “grand- 
son.” Three weeks afterwards Helen laid them 
in a drawer. The old man lived on, but the baby 
died. 

She had barely regained her strength when the 
blow fell, and she reeled under it. For the first 
time she perceived the feebleness of her faith, and 
wished that it were stronger; for the first time she 
cried bitterly for an answer to one of the enigmas 
which she had unthinkingly accepted. The 
thoughtlessness of the favoured and the resigna- 
tion of the devout might be mistaken for each 
other but for the environment that reveals the 
difference. It had seemed to her a regrettable 
necessity that people should die, but things had 
been ordered so. People died; and some were 
born to wealth, and others to want; it was the 


211 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


way of the world — God’s way, one heard on Sun- 
day, if the weather was fine — the poignancy of it 
had never touched her hitherto. Now, at the spur 
of personal pain, her mind leapt the barrier that 
had hedged her sympathies; now she saw that her 
religion of an ivory prayer-book and a church 
parade was a meaningless thing. 

Her own child! Why had he been born if he 
was to be snatched from her as soon as her arms 
had held him? 

It was also the first time that she had instinct- 
ively turned to Maurice to share her emotions, 
and by the irony of circumstance, she turned to 
him at a crisis when he was least able to fulfil her 
demands. He had been grieved by their loss, more 
grieved than he would have believed possible a 
month earlier — nature was stronger than reason — 
but between the standpoints of the mother who 
had longed and the father who had shuddered, the 
disparity was very great. He did his best to soothe 
her; like Lady Wrensfordsley, he found phrases of 
consolation; his pity was apparent. But her senses 
had never been more acute; and he did not once 
say “We have still each other!” 

She had clung to him sobbing violently; she 
withdrew from his embrace telling him that she 
was calmer. She was, in truth, calmer, for the ve- 


21 2 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


hemence of her despair had worn her out, but she 
felt more hopeless than before her outburst — more 
blankly alone. 

She did not turn to him for support again. He 
saw how she continued to suffer, and their divi- 
sion looked wider to him still; he felt it was only 
on impulse that she even sought comfort at his 
hands. The woman who had sought a thousand 
assurances of love, suffered doubly to think she 
was no longer so dear to him. 

She could not blame him for it, she could blame 
him for nothing — his consideration was undimin- 
ished; he remained ready to gratify any whim. 
But it was not his indulgence that she desired now; 
it was his love. She loved him, and she knew it. 
Many times he found her crying, and believed her 
in thought by the grave, when her mind was filled 
by him; many times she petulantly refused a sug- 
gestion for her welfare when she would have wel- 
comed an appeal to her unselfishness. 

It was new to her, wonderfully new, the con- 
sciousness of a man’s mastery. To feel that if her 
husband had cared for her as he used to care, there 
could be no deeper happiness on earth than such 
subjection, was so strange that she did not recog- 
nize herself. She had contemplated love, as she 
had contemplated misery, from the shelter of a 


213 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


pleasance; so faintly had the forces of life touched 
her, that she had been deceived by her fancy for 
her cousin. To-day the fruit of knowledge had 
been bitten to the core; she knew its good and its 
evil; to-day she was a woman alive to her own 
soul. 


214 


CHAPTER XVII. 


The London season meant little more to her 
that year than it means to the majority in London. 
Like them, she read in the papers of others’ enter- 
tainments. Many considered that she carried her 
mourning for an infant too far, and remonstrated 
with her. Agatha — now Mrs. Bligh — remonstrated 
with all the freedom of a bosom friend who had 
hoped to be Lady Jardine. She said: “Do you 
think it right , dear, to go to such a length? How 
dull it must be for your poor husband!” 

Of a truth, after their return from a sojourn on 
the South coast, Maurice had begged his wife to 
seek distraction, though not for his own sake. 
She had replied listlessly that town was hateful 
to her, and that she looked forward to escaping 
from it again. Would she care to go at once, he 
asked, but she shook her head; she would wait un- 
til September, when they were going to Pang- 
bourne. Her lethargy seemed unconquerable, and 
by Lady Wrensfordsley’s advice, he induced her to 
ask a few people to stay with them there. 

He was surprised one afternoon in Pall Mall to 


215 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


see Rosa in a hansom; he had not known that she 
was back in England. It surprised him more that 
she bowed, and signed to the driver to stop. 

“Aren’t you going to shake hands with me?” she 
said, leaning forward. 

“Oh,” said Maurice, “why, yes; of course. How 
d’ye do?” The sudden meeting embarrassed him. 

“I was sorry to see you’d lost your baby,” she 
added, while he still sought for civilities. 

“Yes,” he said. ... “I had no idea you 
were in London again.” 

“I came back in June, just after you sent the last 
money. I’m at the Langham. How are you — you 
don’t look very fit?” 

“Oh, I’m all right, thanks. You — you look bet- 
ter than ever.” 

She smiled radiantly. 

“Yes, I feel very good,” she said. “There’s no 
news, I suppose?” 

“News?” 

“How is Sir Noel?” 

“He’s all right.” 

“And your wife?” 

“Thanks.” 

There was a second’s pause in which Maurice 
wondered what her amiability meant, and her eyes 
suggested that there was something she was try- 
ing to say. 


216 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“Tm very glad to have seen you again,” she said. 

“I We oughtn’t to quarrel; I lost my head! 

I hope you will look me up one day. Will you?” 

He wasn’t sure whether so much forgiveness 
was welcome or the reverse, but he was instantly 
touched by it. 

“I shall be delighted. It’s very good of you to 
overlook everything.” 

“Come in any day you like. Do! I’m always 
in about five. I won’t keep you now. So long!” 

She put out her hand again, and he continued his 
way, still undecided whether he was pleased to 
have met her. The sting of their last interview 
had not long been mollified by a feeling of thank- 
fulness that no further variance could occur be- 
tween them; and the reconciliation might be only 
a prelude to renewed entreaties. 

Rosa drove on in the best of spirits. She had 
wished for such a meeting for the last fortnight, 
for she had now the strongest motive for desiring 
Helen’s acquaintance, and she was sanguine of 
overcoming his objections when he understood the 
situation. She had considered writing to him, 
but that course presented difficulties, and as the 
matter wasn’t urgent, she had done no more than 
play with the pen. It was seldom that she 
had gone out without the hope of an encounter, 
but this afternoon, as it happened, she had not 


217 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


thought of him, and her luck exhilarated her the 
more because it was so unexpected. 

While the hansom bore her back to the hotel, 
she foresaw herself explaining the circumstances, 
and making her request, on the occasion of his 
visit; but when he came after a few days, and she 
reflected that he would come again, she began to 
think that she would evince greater tactfulness by 
arriving at the request by degrees. 

“I asked you if there was any news when I met 
you,” she said; “you might return the compliment. 
What would you say if I told you I was on the 
verge of a big coup? If things go as — as I expect 
them to go, you won’t be the only successful one. 
It’s on the cards that I make a fine match.” 

It gratified her intensely to tell him that she had 
been independent of his offices; if she could have 
done without them altogether, the moment would 
have gratified her even more. But then he would 
not have been here. 

“I’m heartily glad to hear it,” said Maurice; “I 
thought you looked very satisfied with yourself!” 
He felt as awkward with her as he had done in the 
streets, and it amazed him that she could talk so 
easily. 

“I met him in Monte Carlo. He hasn’t popped 
— of course it takes longer because of my position 
— but he’s wildly in love. My! isn’t he just. He 


218 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


sends me flowers, and comes to tea. I talk of my 
poor husband, 'Colonel Fleming/ . . . one of 

the oldest families in America. I think it will be 
all right. . . It was very funny at the beginning 

in Monte Carlo. I caught him mashing a lady 
who was a ‘lady’ a colonel’s widow couldn’t know; 
Emilie had told me about her. My face was a 
treat! So was his when I shivered! The shiver 
settled his doubts about me for the time being. . . 
Still he hasn’t come to the point, near as he is to it; 
shivers are all very well, but he’d like to see some 
connections — he’s a baronet.” 

“Oh!” said Maurice; “what’s his name — I may 
ask, mayn’t I?” 

“I believe you know him; he has mentioned you. 
He — er— isn’t young, but he’s lively for his age. I 
guess plenty of society girls — girls whose people 
have got titles themselves — would jump to get the 
chance. It’s Sir Adolphus Bligh.” 

Maurice looked blank. Sir Adolphus was an old 
friend of Lady Wrensfordsley, and a frequent 
visitor at Prince’s Gardens. He was, as Rosa said, 
lively for his age — too lively in the opinion of 
women who were constantly compelled to affect 
short-sightedness in public — but he had been re- 
garded as a confirmed widower for years. The 
suggestion that his folly might reach the length of 
marriage with an adventuress was unpleasantly 


219 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


strange. What a flutter the match would cause, 
although no one would know the truth about her! 

“It’s good enough,” she said, complacently, “eh? 
Monkspool is nearly as old as Croft Court, isn’t it, 
and he’s very rich? There’s no doubt about it, I 
suppose?” 

“Sir Adolphus has six thousand a year, and the 
best shooting in Hampshire,” he answered. “Of 
course it would be a very good thing for you 
pecuniarily, though I should have thought your 
prospects were all right without him.” 

“Ah, pecuniarily!” she said. “There’s more than 
a pecuniary pull. Look what I shall be!” 

Maurice twisted his mustache. He was sincerely 
sorry that she had imparted her news. Events 
must take their course, but he would have pre- 
ferred to remain ignorant of their drift until he 
heard of the wedding. 

The perception that he had not said quite all he 
thought made Rosa ponder when he had gone. 
She could not believe that he would demur any 
more when she pointed out the immediate value 
of his wife’s recognition, but she was glad that she 
had refrained from asking for it to-day. And if the 
distastefulness of suing to him again proved un- 
necessary after all, her triumph would be complete. 
She would have forgiven like a Christian, and 


220 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


would ultimately tender his wife her finger tips as 
Lady Bligh! 

Her joy had been intoxicating when she saw that 
her elderly admirer’s intentions were serious — 
prior to the shiver of which she had spoken, she 
had had some doubt of the nature of his intentions 
— and his delay in confessing himself had surprised 
her. Experience had taught her that in love mat- 
ters the elderly were generally the expeditious. 
That the tardiness was attributable to his reluc- 
tance to take a wife of whom nobody knew any- 
thing had not occurred to her immediately — it had 
been his discreet inquiries, his evident eagerness 
to discover a mutual friend, that supplied the hint 
— and, as was natural in a woman of her class, she 
underestimated the reluctance still. The gay old 
gentleman with the waxed mustache and the big 
picotee was so obviously fascinated that it seemed 
to her such considerations could weigh with him 
very little. 

Nevertheless, though Sir Adolphus called two 
or three times in the next week, his proposal re- 
mained unuttered, and she dropped a line to Mau- 
rice begging him to remember that they were rec- 
onciled. She would not humiliate herself to him 
till she was certain that it was unavoidable, but the 
more often they met in the meanwhile the easier 
the petition would be to make. 


221 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


She was a very handsome woman, and a woman 
who could guard her vocabulary when needful. Sir 
Adolphus was in truth allured; his struggles were 
pathetic. The idea of re-marrying had not crossed 
his mind till recently, and an aphorism of his early 
widowhood, “The man who loses his wife and mar- 
ries again did not deserve to lose his wife/’ had 
only been the frank expression of his views. Now, 
however, sophistry reminded him that the property 
would go to his nephew Percy, and that it was an 
Englishman’s duty to try to prevent the succession 
of a prig whom he cordially disliked. He derived 
a malicious pleasure from allowing the news of his 
attachment to reach the young man’s ears, and 
among the Saviles the consternation was extreme. 

When the season was almost over, and town had 
already thinned, Helen received a letter from Lady 
Wrensfordsley, in which the following passage oc- 
curred: 

“Clara Savile has confided to me that Sir Dolly 
talks of marrying! and some person that nobody 
ever heard of before!! You may imagine what a 
state they are in. If he should have a son, Agatha 
and her husband will be simply beggars — and one 
never knows: I believe they have only got her set- 
tlement to live on till the succession. Her mother 
positively shed tears! I was quite sorry for her. 
You would be doing a real charity if you added his 


222 


•THE WORLDLINGS. 


name to the people you expect at Pangbourne. 
They are moving heaven and earth to get him out 
of the woman’s reach, and think that if he’d accept 
anybody’s invitation, it would be yours. I said I 
would mention it to you. If you are ordering any- 
thing at Lady Pontefract’s, please tell her that I 
consider her bill outrageous. Really, I shall have 
to give up dealing at my friends’! I can’t afford 
them. It it’s true that the Duchess thinks of start- 
ing a milliner’s in South Audley Street, you may be 
sure that nobody but the Americans and the Cape 
people will be able to stand the prices. Don’t for- 
get, there’s a good girl — I mean about Sir Dolly!”’ 

The intelligence startled Helen slightly. Sir 
Adolphus had romped with her when she was a 
child, and she appreciated the fact that since she 
had been a woman he had always taken pains to 
show his best side to her. To hear that he was in 
danger of making himself ridiculous was distress- 
ing. She felt sorry for Agatha as well; and she 
wrote the desired invitation at once. If she had 
been better occupied, she would probably have 
waited until the morrow, but she was alone, and 
her book was dull. 

She had not long despatched the note when the 
footman announced: 

“Mrs. Bligh.” 

Agatha was evidently ignorant of the request 


223 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


that had emanated from Oakenhurst, and more 
than ten minutes passed before she approached the 
matter that engrossed her. She touched upon 
everything but what she had come to say, envying 
the other’s position meanwhile more bitterly than 
she had envied it yet. 

At last she said: 

“Oh, we are so concerned about poor Sir Dolly, 
dear! His mind is quite giving way — he wants to 
marry. Isn’t it sad? Of course, outsiders would 
only laugh, but to the family his collapse is pitiable. 
Such a brilliant man he used to be!’’ 

“I heard from Whichcote that he was likely to 
marry,” said Helen. “I have asked him to come 
to us at Pangbourne. Lady Savile hinted that it 
was rather desirable to persuade him to leave 
town. Do you think he will accept?” 

“Oh, have you? At Pangbourne? How kind of 
you, dear! But you don’t go for more than a 
month, do you? Another month of the lady’s so- 
ciety might be quite fatal— I hope we shall be able 
to stop it before then. You know Percy has al- 
ways been like a son to the old man; he felt it his 
duty to — to do all he could.” 

Naturally,” said Helen. She looked through 
the window, at the trees in the square, and at other 
women s children, who had lived. “Let me give 
you some more tea.” The transparent disingenu- 


224 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


ousness of the pose irritated her, and for a moment 
she repented her attempt to come to the rescue. 

“No more, thanks, dearest. I wonder — between 
ourselves now — if you know her name; she calls 
herself ‘Mrs. Fleming’ ?” 

“I suppose there are thousands of women one 
doesn’t know who are very nice,” said Helen, 
coolly. “Sir Dolly might be extremely happy with 
her.” 

A tinge of confusion entered into Agatha’s 
solicitude for him. “Do you think so?” she said; 
“do you? You don't? Of course one can’t ignore 
that it would be very cruel towards Percy, too, but 
really one doesn’t think so much of that as of the 
scandal. It would be too shocking! Fortunately, 
we made inquiries — there must be limits even to 
Sir Dolly’s weakness! She is quite impossible. I 
know I may talk openly to you, dear; she was 
about London constantly the year before last, with 
your husband, and people say that he knew her 
very well.” 

Helen whitened a little — the stab had been un- 
foreseen — but her gaze never flinched. The other 
woman was leaning forward to her, wearing a con- 
fidential smile, and she smiled back finely: 

“Really?” she said; “but then there are always 
people who are glad to say spiteful things. Are 
you sure you won’t have any more tea?” 

225 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“I daren’t. Sir David told Percy I was ruining 
my nerves with tea. So meddlesome of him! I 
had to promise to give it up. Percy implored; and 
when one marries for love, one makes these sacri- 
fices — you can’t imagine how absurd one gets ! Oh, 
my dear Helen, there’s no doubt about the inti- 
macy! Uncle Fred had chambers in the same 
house as Mr. Jardine, and she was found in your 
husband’s rooms once in the middle of the night. 
I don’t suppose there’s anything in it now — of 
course he only goes to see her for auld lang syne! 
— but she’s quite depraved.” 

She wondered if Agatha had heard her heart 
thud. While she fought for composure, the weak- 
ness mounted from her body to her brain, and she 
saw through a mist. She was torn between a pas- 
sionate eagerness to question the hateful woman 
opposite, and a horror of yielding her the triumph. 
Pride conquered. 

'‘People allow themselves many liberties on the 
plea of auld lang syne,” she said steadily. “Where 
do you go yourselves in the autumn — Oakenhurst, 
isn’t it? Give my love to your mother, if I don’t 
see you again.” 

Agatha rose, the smile fastened to her face by a 
painful effort. 

“It was quite too sweet of you to ask Sir Dolly 
down,” she said; “of course you couldn’t know 


226 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


what arguments we had found!” They always 
kissed, and to omit the ceremony would be to ac- 
knowledge her discomfiture: her eyes betrayed her 
fear of committing herself as she drew nearer. “I 
must run away; I had no idea it was so late, and 
we’re dining early this evening.” 

Helen put forth her fingers, and she was furious 
that she had not taken the initiative. She squeezed 
them gently. 

“By by, dear,” she said, still smiling with stiff 
lips. 


227 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


In the moment that the door closed Helen’s pre- 
dominant emotion was relief. Humiliation rushed 
in upon her the next instant, but the first quick 
consciousness was of thanksgiving to be left alone. 
She dropped back into the chair weakly, and, with 
her gaze fixed upon the same point for minutes, 
sat seeing nothing. Was it true — not eighteen 
months married, and unfaithful to her? Her rea- 
son told her that it was a malignant lie — a person 
who was base enough to wound her with the tale 
so gratuitously was base enough to invent it — but 
reason could not quiet the wakened doubt. 

How could Agatha have heard? He had been 
seen! By whom — Agatha, or friends of hers? Was 
it already food for gossip? Where was she, this 
Mrs. Fleming? Even the name was unfamiliar. 
Her mind groped in the dusk of ignorance 
piteously, and the vast living fact of the unknown 
woman overwhelmed her. 

Should she ask him if it was true. Should she 

say to him ? He was in the smoking-room; she 

might go to him, and tell him what had been said; 


228 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


now, while the impulse was hot in her! She half 
raised herself, but the futility of the question 
weighted her limbs. What answer but one was 
possible? He would declare that the woman was 
nothing to him, and the doubt would remain. 

Then it was never to be ended? The suspicion 
was to haunt her — she was to wonder when he 
kissed her, and imagine whenever he was out? 
Tears gathered in her eyes, and splashed on her 
locked hands. How did women bear these things 
which were whispered over tea-tables with smiles? 
how had her mother borne her life? Hadn’t she 
suffered? 

Oh, it was horrible! Her father, and her hus- 
band! Were all men alike? And the onlookers 
considered it amusing. How often she had heard 
women make a jest of another’s misery — as they 
might be jesting now at hers! She shivered. 
Weren’t they afraid to laugh, when their own turn 
might come to-morrow or next week? 

If you didn’t care for the man, of course the 
pain was less — the abasement was easier to endure; 
and there might be some who asked no more than 
the position for which they yielded themselves. 
Those who married without love must be least 
wretched, unless they loved afterwards, like her- 
self — like a fool — when it was too late! How low 
she had been — what a degradation, stripping the 


229 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


cant and the orange-blossoms from the sale! Sup- 
posing he retorted that he had the right to hold 
his mistress just as high? “When one marries for 
love — you can’t imagine it!” That odious wom- 
an! She had wanted Philip herself, and was en- 
vious still, although she was a wife now — although 
she believed him incapable of fidelity. What a 
world, what a sordid, hypocritical, vile world — the 
women were as vicious as the men! Her little 
baby! She craved to clasp his body to her breast. 
At least he had died while he was pure! 

Excepting when her hand rose mechanically to 
smear away the tears, she sat motionless until the 
gong sounded. Then she lingered before the glass, 
and went slowly to her maid. She might plead a 
headache and dine in her room this evening, but to- 
morrow evening she would again have to dine 
downstairs. What was an evening more or less! 
The necessity for replying to Maurice at the table, 
for assuming her ordinary demeanour in the draw- 
ing-room, demanded one of those efforts that are 
called superhuman. It was a rare occurrence for 
him to leave the house after dinner, now that she 
preferred to remain at home, but sometimes he 
went into a club for an hour; and she found herself 
waiting to hear him say that he was going out to- 
night. She felt vulgar and contemptible; she hated 


230 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


herself for it; but in every silence she knew that 
she was waiting. 

Conversation ceased between them. She found 
her book, and he picked up his own. In the long 
lamp-lit room the soft ticking of a Louis Quatorze 
clock, and the occasional flutter of a bird’s wings 
from the fernery were the only sounds. After half 
an hour the man’s book dropped, and he sat watch- 
ing her wistfully; noting at what lengthy intervals 
she turned the pages, and wondering what had 
troubled her. Her face was concealed; but his gaze 
dwelt upon her fingers on the cover, upon the fair- 
ness of her brow, upon the glimmer of her instep 
through the black lace stocking. She lifted her 
head, and their eyes met. 

“What is wrong, Helen?” he asked, going over 
to her. 

The impulse to tell him what she had heard seized 
her again; and again she wavered, in the knowl- 
edge that he must deny. 

“Wrong?” she said; “what makes you think 
there is anything wrong?” 

“You aren’t reading; you had to make yourself 
talk; you’ve been crying.” The words were a 
lover’s; the tone was the tone of cheerful noncha- 
lance to which he had schooled himself. “I don’t 
want to be inquisitive, but is there anything I can 
do?” 

231 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


She might have said, “Yes, care for me as you 
did before I showed it wearied me” — she might 
have said it earlier — but she wasn’t a woman to 
whom a gush of appeal was easy. The novel lay 
open on her lap, and her forefinger travelled slowly 
up the edges of the paper. 

“Agatha called to-day,” she murmured. She was 
going to test the story, and she felt more despic- 
able still. 

“Oh,” said Maurice, “how is she?” 

“She is worried. They’re afraid Sir Dolly means 
to marry a Mrs. Fleming. Have you heard of her, 
Philip?” 

He had not expected her to mention the matter 
till the engagement was announced. The name on 
her lips, the quick inquiry that followed it, took 
him aback. He looked away. 

“Heard of her?” he repeated; “y-e-s.” 

“Do you know her?” 

He was already collecting his wits. 

“I used to know her,” he said; “I have met her. 
So Sir Dolly is going to marry her, is he? It’s 
rather rough on the Blighs.” 

He had known her — Agatha had been right in 
that! But his embarrassment might have meant no 
more. She trembled an instant between self-abhor- 
rence and temptation. Should she go on? Another 
question, and the uncertainty might be over. 


232 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“Do you ever meet her now?” she said. 

To Maurice his pause seemed longer than it was. 
Why did she ask? What should he answer? To 
say “No” was repugnant to him; moreover, it 
might be unwise; to say “Yes” might call for ex- 
planations which he was unprepared to give. His 
hesitancy did not last five seconds; but it lasted 
long enough to swell her fear. 

“I saw her a few weeks ago in Pall Mall,” he 
said; “I stopped and spoke to her. Why?” 

“Nothing,” said Helen; “I — wondered.” 

She put up the novel; and the tick of the clock 
and the restless flutter of a bird were the only 
sounds again. 


233 


CHAPTER XIX. 


What had she meant? Why had she looked at 
him like that? She had discovered something! — 
he felt it in his veins. She would have avoided his 
kiss when she said “good night.” He turned back 
from the door, quaking. The trend of her suspi- 
cion did not occur to him — innocence is dull- 
brained. His mind sprang to his guilt, and a cold 
sweat broke out over him as he asked himself if 
anything could have happened that menaced ex- 
posure. 

What — What? His thoughts scoured the field 
of conjecture vainly. Could he be mistaken? Was 
there no significance in her queries but what his 
alarm attributed? But, then, why her manner? 

Not for an hour was he in sight of the truth; and 
he dismissed the idea as puerile. Even if he had 
been heard to inquire for Mrs. Fleming by some- 
one who had mentioned the visit, there was no 
reason why Helen should hold it an offence against 
her. Mrs. Fleming was ostensibly a respectable ac- 
quaintance. She was engaged, or about to be en- 
gaged, to Sir Adolphus Bligh. Helen would have 


234 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

said: “Pm told you know this Mrs. Fleming that 
Sir Dolly is raving about. How is it I haven’t met 
her? What’s she like?’’ Some surprise, a natural 
curiosity, but no more. No, her manner wasn’t to 
be accounted for by jealousy — even assuming that 
she cared for him enough to be troubled were there 
cause. He was doubtful if she did. Complaisance 
appeared to be a feature of the woman’s educa- 
tion in the world where he was an intruder — in the 
world where a marriage was a display, a barter, 
anything but a union! 

A new element had entered into his torture; he 
was harassed by misgiving. He felt that he him- 
self had nothing to lose — felt it honestly — the game 
hadn’t been worth the candle; had he stood alone, 
the whisper — if they did whisper — might have 
risen to a roar, and they could have done what 
they liked with him. But he would ruin her if he 
fell; and he swore he wouldn’t fall. Before disgrace 
should touch his wife he was ready to perjure him- 
self with a face of brass, and to break every law 
made by God or man. 

And Helen meanwhile continued to question in 
every hour of the day whether he had dishonoured 
her. Now the rare thing had happened; her soul 
had shed its veil, and leapt to the woman naked; 
she was dizzy in the light of self-revelation. In the 
doubt that tormented her, his presence was an 



235 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


ignominy, and his voice was a lash; but she loved 
him. How deep her love had grown hadn’t been 
known to her till this fear that she had lost him 
entirely tugged at its roots. It stabbed her to re- 
flect that the stranger had, at least, been his mis- 
tress once, and she hated Agatha for telling her; 
she wished to blot from her mind all consciousness 
that other women had played parts in his life; she 
saw that her own was filled by him. She recalled 
their honeymoon; she looked back with wet eyes at 
the months in which she knew that she had held 
him, at the time when he kissed the slippers that 
she wore. When had the other influence been re- 
covered? Oh, God! How he had insulted her, de- 
graded her. She twisted her hands. 

But was it true? How did one find out such 
things? She couldn’t live like this; she must be 
sure! She wondered if the story had reached her 
mother’s ears, if her mother found it convincing; 
she was to be in town shortly — when they were 
together it might be possible to ascertain! And Sir 
Dolly, what of him? He had accepted the invita- 
tion; the fact had been somewhat surprising; had 
his intentions changed, or would he snap his fin- 
gers at the Saviles’ interference, and excuse him- 
self later from coming on the grounds of his en- 
gagement? 

Lady Wrensfordsley’s visit to town was for the 
236 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


purpose of a day’s shopping, and she would, of 
course, spend the night at Prince’s Gardens. 

The geniality of her greeting was an instant re- 
lief to Maurice, for he had dreaded to find her air 
as constrained as Helen’s. Helen herself was more 
than once persuaded by it, while they shopped and 
drove, that Lady Savile had refrained from re- 
peating the tale which Agatha had doubtless com- 
municated post haste, and she was a little per- 
plexed; she was eager for her mother’s judgment, 
but shrank from approaching the subject. Only 
at dinner the visitor’s sunniness was a tinge too 
sunny, her satisfaction with everybody and every- 
thing, except Lady Pontefract’s bill, a shade too 
complete to deceive one who had been familiar with 
her voice for years; and now her daughter watched 
her hungrily, striving to arrive at her opinion be- 
fore she uttered it. 

The hope that Helen hadn’t been told had died 
in Lady Wrensfordsley at the moment when she 
first entered the drawing-room, and considerable 
nervousness underlay the serenity with which she 
at last declared herself tired. She foresaw a bad 
half-hour as she was accompanied, and memories 
intensified her pity. 

It appeared to Helen that her maid was very 
slow in attendance on another. The preparations 
threatened to be interminable, as, waiting for the 


237 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


girl to finish, she sat gazing mutely at the tea- 
things which were to minister to Lady Wrensfords- 
ley’s unconquered vice. Yet when the maid had 
gone, the power to speak seemed to have gone as 
well, and the silence continued. 

It was broken by the elder woman. 

“You are going to have some with me, aren’t 
you?” she inquired, cheerfully, coming to the table. 
“Really not? That’s a very good girl of yours, 
dear! You were very fortunate to get her. Other 
people’s maids are so clumsy as a rule; they’re like 
boots — they’re of no use to anybody but the 
owner.” She poured out her tea, and sipped it 
with increasing apprehension. “I’ve been think- 
ing,” she went on, after a pause, “that the insertion 
would have been more effective than the ruche, do 
you know! I wonder. I’ve a good mind to send 
a wire in the morning. What do you think your- 
self?” 

Helen got up, and stood with her elbow resting 
on the mantelshelf. 

“What’s the matter?” asked Lady Wrensfords- 
ley. “Aren’t you well?” 

“Mother! You know!” 

“I know?” said Lady Wrensfordsley. “I know 
what? What is it — what are you staring like that 
for?” 

“You know what is said. You know that they 


238 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


say this woman is — is Philip’s mistress. Agatha 
told me — they’ve told you! Don’t pretend to me — 
I want you to talk to me, to tell me what to do. 
Should I believe it? Do you believe it? Tell me 
the truth!” 

“Believe it? Why should I believe anything so 
perfectly ridiculous? Agatha told you, did she? 
And what proof did the cat give you? My dear 
Helen, I thought you had more sense! Sir Dolly 
wants to marry the woman, and it’s to their inter- 
est to take away her character. Can’t you see 
that?” 

“They are not compelled to take away Philip’s. 
There are other men in London. . . . Before 

I married him everyone knew about him and — 
Mrs. Fleming. Did you know?” 

“I did not,” said Lady Wrensfordsley. “And 
who says that everyone knew — Agatha? If you’re 
going to be happy, my dear, the first thing you’ve 
got to learn is to believe very little of what people 
say. People say anything, especially spiteful wom- 
en who are envious of one match, and eager to 
break off another. I fervently trust that Sir Dolly 
will marry this Mrs. Fleming, and that he’ll have 
a son with the least possible delay!” 

“Why does he go to see her now, if he’s true to 
me?” exclaimed Helen, thickly. “Is it natural for a 
man to visit a woman he used to know like that, 


239 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


if he cares for his wife? Why does he go to her 
if there’s no wrong?” 

“ ‘Why’? . . . How do you know he does 

go? You seem to be wonderfully credulous all of 
a sudden!” 

“I asked him. He hesitated; he admitted that 
he had ‘met’ her. Oh, my eyes are clear enough; 
I could see that I’d startled him.” 

“I can quite imagine it if you looked at him as 
you look now — you’d startle anybody. I keep tell- 
ing you that you’ve no reason to think he did 
know her like that! When a good-looking wom- 
an’s alone, someone is always ready to explain her 
income in such a way.” 

“What do you mean?” said Helen. “Do you 
mean that she was supposed to take — to take 
money from him? She is a woman who — O, my 
God! he insults me for her — the love that’s sold 
— the love that’s sold!” 

She began to sob, catching her lip between her 
teeth in an effort to steady herself. 

“I thought,” said her mother, feebly, “you told 
me that Agatha ” 

“You thought I knew — yes. Oh, it doesn’t mat- 
ter! What difference does it make who she is 
if he has gone back on her! Why should I mind? 
Has he? Tell me! You treat me like a child. You 
sit there trying to deceive me. I’m a woman — I’m 
his wife — I’ve a right to know!” 


240 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“I’ve told you! The story’s nonsense. Helen, 
don’t!” She went across to her dismayed, stretch- 
ing out nervous hands. 

“I don’t believe you — I don’t believe you think 
so. Of course, you’d say so — you think it best for 
me to say so. You don’t think what it is to me 
to be with him, if it’s true - the horror of it, day 
after day! Now! You mean to be kind, but you 
don’t understand — you don’t understand!” 

“I don’t ‘understand’?” murmured Lady Wrens- 
fordsley, with a lifetime in her voice. 

Helen lifted her head, and for a moment the 
eyes of the women met. 

“Ah, mother! mother!” 

She drooped to her with the cry, and some sec- 
onds passed while they held each other without 
speaking. 

“Listen,” said Lady Wrensfordsley, “I under- 
stand — I understand much better than you can 
realize. One is never young to one’s child, but I 
was younger than you when I married. I’ve been 
through it all, just as you are going through it. I 
oughtn’t to say that to you, but you know. At the 
beginning I tried to find out, just as you are trying 
to find out. And when I succeeded I broke my 
heart. Helen, don’t ask! You might prove him 
true now — and again, and perhaps again; but the 
day would come when you would ask once too 


241 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


often. And nothing pays for that. Close your 
eyes; the contented woman is the woman who 
doesn’t see too much. Love isn’t blind, because 
there’s no love without jealousy, and jealousy’s an 
Argus; but contentment is!” 

“ ‘Contentment!’ To suffer — to question! You 
say that I’m mistaken — tell me how to be sure of 
it! Never mind the future; I’d never suspect him 
any more. I’d go on my knees to him, and ask 
his pardon! The doubt is killing me — tell me how 
to be sure to-day!” 

“And supposing you found that you were right? 
I don’t say you would — I don’t think you would; 
but if you did? What do you imagine that cer- 
tainty would do for you? Your doubt will die. 
You can’t believe that; but some time — in a few 
months perhaps — you will look back and wonder at 
it. Perhaps you will be wrong to wonder — per- 
haps you will be right; but right, or wrong, the 
revulsion comes to every woman who is as fond 
of a man as you are. I didn’t dream how fond you 
were! Knowledge never dies; I have known it 
poison every hour of fifteen years.” 

“If I found I was right, certainty would — would 
save me from shuddering at myself,” stammered 
Helen. “That’s what it would do! I should wish 
I were dead. But the worst humiliation would be 
over.” 


242 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“You wouldn’t make a scandal?” gasped Lady 
Wrensfordsley. “You wouldn’t do that?” 

“Make a scandal — If Isn’t it the scandal that he 
should come to me from — from that woman’s arms, 
and I should have to tolerate his touch, and — give 
him my lips? I tell you that it’s driving me mad, 
the shame of it! Make a scandal — If” 

“If you knew you were right, it would be very 
awful. At the same time ” 

“You feel that I’m right, or you wouldn’t advise 
me to bear the doubt.” 

“Your position gone: 'poor Lady Helen’ — every- 
body talking! How would you bear that?” 

“Some people talk already.” 

“But you don’t suffer socially while you remain 
with him. Think what you would lose! You don’t 
mean it?” 

“Socially? Oh, no! I don’t 'suffer socially’ while 
I remain with him — I forgot. I suffer just a little 
in my heart — I feel just a little lowered, and un- 
clean. But I haven’t reached that modern martyr- 
dom, to 'suffer socially!’ ” She lifted steadfast eyes, 
and to both the women who had loved without 
comprehending each other, the great gulf that sep- 
arated them was clear. “I wouldn’t submit to the 
dishonour to keep a coronet,” she said. 

Lady Wrensfordsley moved about the room in 
purposeless inquietude. Her fringe, which she 


243 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


had retained in prospect of the interview, had been 
displaced, and the sign of trouble on her forehead 
was deepened by the unfamiliar glimpse of grey 
hair. 

Helen kissed her, and drew her back to her seat. 

‘Til leave you now, mother. You’ve had 
enough.” 

“Are you tired, dear? Good night. I shan’t go 
to bed yet.” Her hand lingered. “I am positive of 
one thing — that he’s very fond of you. I’ve no 
doubt about that at all! If he lost you he would 
be dreadfully cut up.” 

“We won’t talk about it any more, dearest. I’m 
so sorry!” 

“Wait a minute. I mean it. Whatever he may 
or may not have done, he’s very fond of you; don’t 
overlook it.” 

“If he were fond of me still, I shouldn’t be won- 
dering. He used to be. It was my fault that he 
changed, I know.” 

“And yet you would divorce him for — for a mad- 
ness? When all is said, wouldn’t it be rather hard 
of you? Sit down — you wouldn’t sleep. I want to 
tell you something that we take a long time to 
learn. We never do learn it, really, or we mightn’t 
be so wretched; but after a great many years we 
begin to get an inkling of it. We oughtn’t to judge 
pur husbands from our own standpoint. You said 

244 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


just now that if Philip cared for you, he couldn’t be 
unfaithful; I assure you that you’re wrong. We are 
better than men are, in big things — we fib more, 
and we’re ruder; but on the whole we are better, 
even in our sins. A woman has to fancy herself 
in love with another man before she deceives her 
husband; but a man can run after other women, 
while he knows he loves his wife. I am not saying 
that all men do — Philip may not, for one — but 
there are hundreds and thousands who can. The 
woman who refuses to believe her husband loves 
her simply because she discovers him to be incon- 
stant, only understands her own nature.” 

“ ‘Simply!’” said Helen. “The woman who 
‘simply’ discovers it!” 

“Yes, if the bare fact is all she has to go upon, 
she only understands her own nature; she doesn’t 
understand men’s. And such as it is, it’s what we 
ought to judge them by. They are the slaves of 
their impulses, to use a pretty word; their point of 
view is totally different from ours — they can’t see 
what we have to make such a fuss about. Many a 
man who deceives his wife without the slightest 
compunction would go through fire and water to 
save her a grief he understood. < My dear child, 
don’t let us forget that if men had self-control 
most women would die old maids! Nobody can 
imagine that men marry because they find their 


245 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


most suitable companions; the number of ‘kindred 
souls’ that happened to drift together every year, 
in St. James’s alone, would be quite miraculous! 
They marry because they can’t resist temptation. 
While we are the temptation, we aren’t surprised — 
and why expect a man’s nature to be altered by a 
wedding ceremony?” 

“Why didn’t you ask me that while I was en- 
gaged?” returned Helen, drearily. 

“My dear!” exclaimed her mother, looking a 
little shocked. . . . “What I am telling you is 
quite right,” she went on; “men are ruled by their 
passions; but after marriage there may be affec- 
tion and esteem — after marriage they may have 
quite a different feeling for their wives than for 
anybody else. I think in most cases they have. 
That’s what I mean by saying they can’t see what 
we have to make such a fuss about when they are 
horrible. The feeling they give way to is often so 
much lower than their feeling for ourselves — so 
separate from their affection — that they don’t un- 
derstand our being jealous of it.” 

“I am not ‘jealous,’ ” said Helen, rising; “I am 
revolted.” 

“Yes,” sighed Lady Wrensfordsley, “I know; we 
never say we are jealous till it has ceased to be 
true.” 

“Good night, mother.” 


246 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“Good night. . . . Your eyes are red; he’ll 

wonder — you’d better use my puff before you go.” 

“Have you everything you want? A book?” 

“No, I shan’t read. . . . Take my advice 

now, and don’t meet trouble half way.” 

“They shall bring breakfast in to you in the 
morning; don’t get up.” 

“Oh, I’ll get up; I may as well. Half-past nine, 
isn’t it?” 

“You had better not — you are sure to be tired. 
I shall say you aren’t to be called.” 

“Well, if you think so, dear! — perhaps it would 
be best. . . . Good night.” 

“Good night.” 


247 


CHAPTER XX. 


Maurice had not been to see Rosa since 
Helen referred to her. His fear had faded; but to 
call upon her was neither pleasant nor necessary. 
It was impossible for him to feel at ease in the pres- 
ence of a woman who had told him he was a liar 
and a blackguard, and he considered that the few 
visits he had already made were sufficient to show 
that he appreciated her forgiveness. A few days 
after Lady Wrensfordsley’s departure he received 
another note, reproaching him for his absent- 
ment; and he replied that he was at the point of 
leaving for the Court. The statement was quite 
true, but he omitted to add that he was going that 
evening, and returning on the morrow. Such fly- 
ing trips, either in Helen’s company, or alone, were 
frequently made to the old man, and eagerly antici- 
pated by him. 

Rosa was perturbed. That she would have to 
seek assistance from Maurice had latterly looked 
to her inevitable; Sir Adolphus was also absenting 
himself, and on the last occasion that he came had 
said nothing more definite than that he was going 

248 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


to Pangbourne on the first of next month, to stay 
at Lady Helen Jardine’s. Pangbourne was far 
enough from the Langham; but, compared with 
other places that he had lightly mentioned, it was 
round the corner. A cacoethes for travel seemed 
suddenly to have possessed the old gentleman, and 
an airy allusion to Damascus had struck her dumb. 

If she had failed to realize during their conver- 
sation that her prospect had suffered an unex- 
pected blow, the ensuing week would have made 
it clear to her; and now that the waiter no longer 
announced him at the hour of teagowns, she saw it 
was more luck than judgment that permitted her 
to remain confident of victory. He was to be 
Maurice’s guest, and admired her much too ar- 
dently to be able to stay in the same house with her 
without proposing; her desire to conquer single- 
handed hadn’t been fatal, near as it had come to 
being so! But that she should be invited to Pang- 
bourne was imperative; and now Maurice was leav- 
ing town — had probably left it! She threw his 
answer on the floor in disgust. 

In point of fact, he had just started for Waterloo 
as she tore open his envelope. Helen was not 
accompanying him this time, and she was still at 
the dinner table from which he had risen on the 
removal of the sweets. She hadn’t petitioned her 
mother again to help her to set her mind at rest — 


249 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


she knew that it would be useless — nor had she 
responded in her letters to the guarded hope that 
she was “feeling better/’ It seemed to her that 
she would never feel better in her life, and there 
was no need to cause further distress by saying so. 
They regarded the matter from different stand- 
points: to her mother’s view, it was folly to be 
wise — to herself such ignorance was continuous 
torment. They were rooted to their positions, with 
the shield between them, and not all the talking in 
the world would ever turn it. 

Her dessert plate was before her, and she was 
alone, but the fruit was untasted. While she sat 
thinking, a hansom rattled to the house, and the 
next moment the click of a latchkey told her that 
her husband had driven back. She wondered what 
he had forgotten, for it was only a minute or two 
since he had said “Good-by.” 

She heard him stride along the hall, and stop 
at the hat-stand. A clatter of sticks and umbrellas 
reached her, as an overcoat was swept against the 
handles. Whatever he had sought, he found it al- 
most at once, for the impetuous search was brief; 
then the scratch of a vesta suggested that it wa.s 
his cigar-case he had left behind. He hurried out; 
the door was slammed again, and she heard him 
run down the four steps. 

The sound of the horse’s hoofs grew fainter; the 


250 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


clip-clop died away. In the street there was mo- 
mentary silence. She traced lines on the cloth with 
the fork, and wished that it were time to go to 
bed. She was, anomalously, relieved to be free 
of his presence and lonely without him; she began 
to regret that she had not gone to Oakenhurst 
herself. 

Presently the postman went to the next house 
but one; she always knew when he had reached 
that — it was the only house on this side with a 
knocker. She paused, with a strawberry between 
her fingers, and listened. Even letters would make 
an incident. He was going to the next house, too. 
. . . . Now he had come down. Was he pass- 

ing? No, he stopped — he was coming here. There 
was the slow, heavy ascent, the pull at the bell; and 
then a second ring, which meant that he was wait- 
ing. Something unstamped, or too big for the 
box! 

She heard the servant’s lighter footfall on the 
stairs — his leisurely approach. It was interesting 
to note the time he found it possible to take be- 
tween the two doors. 

“For Mr. Jardine, or for me?” she asked. 

“For you, my lady.” 

She turned her head, and saw Maurice’s keys 
lying beside the letters. 

“Where do these come from?” 


251 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“They were left in the door, my lady. The post- 
man just saw them.” 

“Oh,” she said; “it’s fortunate he did! Very 
well, put them down. And, Plummer!” 

“Yes, my lady?” 

“Give the man something the next time he 
comes.” 

“Yes, my lady. Half-a-crown, my lady?” 

“Yes,” she said. “No! give him more than that. 
They might have been stolen, and it would have 
been a great inconvenience. Give him — give him 
half-a-sovereign. Don’t forget; I wish him to have 
it to-morrow night. You had better go to the 
door when you hear him in the street.” 

“Very good, my lady.” 

A bill, and a begging letter. Some furniture 
which had displeased her when they took posses- 
sion was being warehoused; and at least one ap- 
plication for ten-and-sixpence in advance irritated 
her every month. The ninth woman who had writ- 
ten to say that she, too, had lost her baby in the 
spring, quoted the Scriptures, and asked for twenty 
pounds. 

Her mind reverted to the keys. Yes, it was 
lucky that the postman had come — if they had 
been lost it would have been a dreadful nuisance; 
there must be the keys of the safe there, there 
must be the key of Philip’s cash-box, there must 


252 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


be the key of his desk. . . . There must be 
the key of his desk! 

She sat quite still; the room was very warm, but 
she felt suddenly cold in it. It shocked her that she 
could have thought of such a thing. What an idea; 
how had it entered her head! She was mortified 
that she had entertained it even for a second. To 
open his desk — to spy? How impossible! Ex- 
traordinary that such baseness should have oc- 
curred to her! . . . She didn’t want any straw- 

berries after all; she would go to the drawing- 
room. 

She found her pocket, and put the keys in it; and 
went upstairs. She had left the piano open, and 
she wandered over to the music stool; but her 
touch was weak, and before she had played a bar, 
her eyes grew wide again, and her hands drooped. 
He kept his bank book in the desk — she might 
have ended her doubt in five minutes! She sighed 
impatiently, and struck another chord. . . and 

got up. 

A volume of verse was lying on the sofa, and 
she settled herself to read. When a quarter of an 
hour had gone by she awoke to the fact that she 
had not understood a line, and she put the book 
down. She drew the keys out, and sat looking 
at them. If she proved him innocent, she would 


253 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


own to him what she had done; she would say: 
“Forgive me! I was mad to see if you were keep- 
ing the woman or not, and I went to the smoking- 
room and opened your desk.” “Opened your 
desk”? It sounded horrible! No, she couldn’t 
do it! 

But hadn’t she the right to do it — hadn’t she 
the right to learn the truth? The action was 
repugnant to her, but she was entitled to know! 
She could not live like this; better the one swift 
shame than the humiliation that she was suffer- 
ing — better a thousand times. When all was said, 
there was nothing unjustifiable in a woman look- 
ing at her husband’s pass-book; nothing heinous in 
her unlocking a desk which she had never been 
asked to consider sacred. If it held no secret, why 
should he object? If it didn’t hold the secret, she 
would apologize — she would tell him how much 
she had borne first. If it did, she would rejoice 
that she had overcome her scruples; she would 
be intensely and forever glad of what she had 
done. 

Perhaps the book was at the bank? She took 
her own sometimes, and for weeks forgot to call 
for it. She hadn’t thought of that till now. But 
his check book, at least, might be seen. Those 
little slips at the side — what was the word? Coun- 


254 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


terfoils! Mrs. Fleming’s name would appear in 
those. Would he imagine that it was the money 
she grudged? Heaven knew that he might have 
given away their money with both hands, and she 
would have made no protest. He could not, he 
dare not, suggest it was the money. 

The keys burnt her palm, and she moved rest- 
lessly to and fro. Somewhere within hearing, one 
of the untrained bands which are forbidden in their 
own country, and to which England opens her 
arms, commenced to bray a German valse. The 
discords maddened her, as they were maddening 
many others. 

The Louis Quatorze clock struck nine. After a 
while, the brazen torture ceased. She put the keys 
on the table, and returned to the poetry, and 
forced herself to follow it — re-reading the lines un- 
til her brain grasped their sense. . . . The 

clock struck again, once. Her cushion slipped to 
the ground, and she rose feverishly. She couldn’t 
bear it any longer; she must know! 

She went down to the hall without further hesi- 
tation. The smoking-room was at the foot of the 
back staircase, and for once she dreaded to meet 
a servant’s eyes. As she turned the handle she 
glanced over her shoulder apprehensively, and 
caught a breath of relief. In private houses the 


255 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


electric light was not yet general, and a minute 
passed while she felt about the room for matches. 
She brushed the box off the mantelpiece, and it 
fell with a rattle in the fender. By the time she 
had lit the gas she was breathing fast. 

The desk stood opposite the door; it had been 
here when they came — a walnut desk and book- 
case combined, with drawers down the sides, and 
clear amber knobs. She dropped into the chair 
that faced it, and wondered which was the right 
key. 

Now when she had got so far, indecision seized 
her again, and while she yearned for certitude, she 
quailed in self-contempt. The sight of the desk 
magnetized her; but for some seconds her hands 
shook in her lap, and she could not put them 
out. 

If he had dishonoured her, a moments strength 
would bring the knowledge; one effort, and the 
ignominy of her position with him would be over. 
Had he dishonoured her? the answer lay inside. 
She lifted her hands, and bent forward. There 
were six keys on the ring and any one of them 
might fit — she would have to try them all. 

She was trembling violently, and still she could 
not force herself to touch the lock. For an instant 
she wavered so — a reed between enticement and 
256 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


repulsion; then she flung the keys from her, and 
sprang upright : 

“I won’t, I won’t!” she said; “I swear it!” 

And when she had found them — far across the 
room — she went upstairs again, and put them in 
her dressing-table, where they lay unseen till Mau- 
rice’s return. 


257 


CHAPTER XXI. 


A few days after he came back he received a let- 
ter from Rosa, which had been re-addressed at the 
Court. Evidently it had not been forwarded with- 
out delay; by its date he saw that it must have been 
delivered there on the day he left. 

She had written at length; and his heart sank as 
he read the first page : 

“Sir Adolphus is backing out, and if I am not 
helped, it will be all up with me. I know all about 
your objection to seeing me in your house, and 
very foolish of you it is ! — but this once I want you 
to invite me to stay at Pangbourne while he is 
there. You need never ask me any more, but this 
one visit means everything to me. I suppose you 
won’t spoil my chance rather than put up with a 
little unpleasantness? For Heaven’s sake, manage 
it at once. I’ve the right to turn to you — and I 
am!” After the “am” the letter was repetitious, 
and in parts more urgent than lucid. 

He destroyed it in dismay. So his apprehensions 
had not misled him; the difficulty was revived! He 
had to maintain that what she asked was impossible, 

25S 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


and this time his refusal would madden her. Al- 
though she would probably have swallowed her 
pride at such a crisis even if their reconciliation had 
not occurred, he recalled their meeting in Pall Mall 
with the bitterest regret; there was just a doubt 
whether she would have renewed her request if they 
had been estranged; and certainly denial would 
have been easier. 

He did not know what to say to her. He was as 
averse as ever from wounding her with the truth, 
and in the circumstances he could not avoid it by 
the plea which he had advanced before. To tell her 
that she must sacrifice a definite matrimonial pros- 
pect, because her presence in his home would re- 
mind him of what he wished to forget, would be the 
answer of a ruffian. He began to compose a reply 
in his head, with the instinctive hope that prelusory 
phrases would suggest an idea; but none came to 
him. All that came was a second letter, which she 
had directed to Prince’s Gardens, and which reached 
him within, a few hours of the first. In desperation 
at last, he sat down and wrote a hurried note, in 
which he said nothing but that he would write fully 
on the morrow. It arrived at the same moment as 
some boxes from Bond Street containing boating 
costumes. 

She read it almost at a glance, before she looked 
at her frocks. It alarmed her slightly. Still “fully” 


259 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


might mean with the invitation. He couldn’t be 
capable of ruining her in sheer doggedness? No 
man’s audacity could rise to such a pitch. She was 
glad that her second letter had been sent, for her 
references to his responsibility had been less veiled 
in that; one sentence she remembered with especial 
satisfaction: “I have got nearly as far myself as I 
helped you to get; and now I ask you to give me a 
hand over the last half-yard.” That had said every- 
thing in a nutshell; there was no shirking that! 
Canting humbug as he was, he could not have the 
shamelessness to answer that she must forego six 
thousand a year and a title in order to spare him 
a month’s discomfort. He might squirm, but he 
would have to give in ! 

She spread the frocks on the sofa and the arm- 
chairs; and fingered them, and moved about them 
backwards, with her head to one side; and rang for 
Emilie. And on the morrow her impatience was 
forgotten while she went to say that all the things 
must be sent for and altered; but in the evening, 
when the nine o’clock post brought her nothing, 
she was very angry. 

What occasion for delay was there! It need not 
take him long to mention the matter to his wife, 
and to scribble a line to say that he had managed it. 
Perhaps his wife had demurred? That might be 
the explanation — that wife of his! Very likely she 


260 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


did not want anybody else to join her party; in a 
languid, superior way she was making difficulties? 
Well, he would have to insist, that was all! And 
Lady Bligh would be just as good as she, and 
wouldn’t fail to eye her with open disparagement 
whenever they met; she wasn’t so startling, to judge 
by her portrait in the ll hj^tratcAJ ^ daxLNjmgj there 
had been nothing for a man to go crazy over. A 
man? Two statues staring at each other! 

The following morning she woke so early that 
she had an hour to wait before the post was deliv- 
ered; and when she saw Emilie empty-handed at 
last, the disappointment tightened her throat. She 
returned from a milliner’s with the thought that a 
telegram might be awaiting her; and in the after- 
noon her chagrin found vent in the composition of 
a furious remonstrance, which she sealed, and then 
tore up. It was not until she was going down to 
dinner that the letter appeared; and she seized it 
with a sudden premonition of disaster — she knew 
that a blow was falling before she had succeeded in 
ripping open the envelope. 

Maurice stated that unfortunately he wasn’t able 
to come to her assistance. The idea of Sir 
Adolphus remarrying was not approved by his in- 
timate friends, of whom Helen was one. In view of 
the opinions she held, it was absolutely impossible 


261 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


to ask her to do anything that was likely to further 
the match. He added friendly futilities. 

An access of rage rose out of her mental sick- 
ness. He could have hit on no excuse that would 
have exasperated her more. His wife disapproved! 
The woman who had ruined one of her chances al- 
ready, “disapproved” of the other. She paced the 
room with exclamations, c her brains for 



argument. She wouldn’t, she couldn’t, resign her- 
self to failure. Any humiliation was preferable; she 
would go on her knees rather than accept defeat. 

After a few minutes she began to question the 
truth of the message. Perhaps it was merely a 
cloak to his cowardice, and he had never spoken 
about her to his wife at all? It might be a down- 
right lie, to conceal the infamy of his refusal. She 
snatched at the letter again: if the suggestion could 
not be made, why hadn’t he said so at the begin- 
ning; what had he waited two days for? It was a 
lie! and, fiercely as she hated him for it, her load 
lightened a little. The obstacle of his wife’s objec- 
tion had been crushing, but this permitted her a 
breath of hope. 

Dinner was forgotten. She ran to the writing 
table and caught up a pen. 

“You will do what I want,” she scrawled, “or I 
will make you pay for it with every shilling you 
have.” She continued in the same strain for half a 


262 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


dozen lines; and then paused uncertainly. No! She 
could not frighten him— he wouldn’t believe that 
she would beggar herself. Oh, what a scoundrel 
he was; she would like to see him in the gutter, 
wiping a crust! But since it was no use to threaten, 
what could she do? She was too excited as yet to 
think of any course less obvious. Not much more 
than a week now was left of August, and unless she 
drove him into a corner, she would not hear from 
him again until he made the September payment. 
She burst into tears, and threw down the pen de- 
spairingly; and it was late before she picked up an- 
other. 

“If your wife disapproves,” she wrote, “give me 
a chance to get into her good books; if she sees me, 
she may change her mind. I see by your kind letter 
that you are anxious to do all you can; so let me 
call at Prince’s Gardens to-morrow afternoon. If 
she doesn’t take to me when we meet, that can’t be 
helped — you will have done your best for me then. 
Wire what is the best time for me to come; wire as 
soon as you get this. I am sure I can depend on 
you.” 

She became aware that she was feeling very faint, 
and she ordered some supper and a bottle of cham- 
pagne. Her courage flowed back to her while she 
supped; she was proud of having subjugated her 
temper to diplomacy, and though she had small ex- 

263 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


pectation of the telegram that she had affected to 
ask for so confidently, she did not doubt that Mau- 
rice would be announced at an early hour. Now 
that the note had gone, she regretted not having 
told him that she should read silence as consent, 
and call about four o’clock if he did not telegraph. 
However, she had probably said enough to bring 
him. 

Her brain buzzed in rehearsing her appeal, and 
she did not sleep until half the night had worn 
away. When she rose, she was far more tired than 
when she had gone to bed, and she perceived with 
consternation that the cogency born of champagne 
had faded from her; the forcible phrases which had 
kept her awake, and promised victory, no longer 
presented themselves. After all, when he did come, 
what was she going to say? She felt too spiritless 
to withstand anybody, and was cowed by the con- 
sciousness* of her own lassitude. 

She took no more of her breakfast than the tea; 
but when she had dressed, she stimulated her mind 
a little by a strong brandy-and-soda. About 
eleven o’clock, when she began to expect him, she 
thought she might at least be fluent; and by mid- 
day she was again eager. 

As the hours passed, and neither a visitor nor a 
message arrived, her impatience glowed at white 
heat. She tried to lunch, but it was as much as 


264 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


she could do to swallow some biscuits with a 
second brandy-and-soda. Her uneasiness devel- 
oped into a fury of indignation, and she told her- 
self that never had a woman been so abominably 
treated before. She had no fear now of being 
feeble if he came; perhaps it was just as well that 
he was late — the callousness had served to rouse 
her! She reflected that she ought always to have 
been the mistress of the situation, instead of a pen- 
sioner on his good-will. Other women, with not 
half such a hold over men, did as they pleased with 
them. It was monstrous. She ought to domi- 
nate; and she was a cipher. It seemed to her that 
she must be overlooking the lever — that, in rele- 
gating her to a position so subordinate, he must 
have traded on her stupidity from the first. This 
idea incensed her doubly. 

Maurice had not received her note until lunch- 
eon time, for she had sent it downstairs after the 
night collection was made, and it had been de- 
livered at an hour when he was out. If she had 
known the fact, her anxiety would have been 
lessened. 

It appeared to him that the best course was to 
telegraph that he would be with her in the eve- 
ning, but he was not immediately free to send the 
message; Helen had heard that her mother was 
indisposed, and unless a telegram relieved her mis- 


265 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


givings during the afternoon, she spoke of going 
to Oakenhurst. It was three o’clock before he 
was able to communicate with Rosa; he went to 
the office in Exhibition Road. In Prince’s Gate, 
as he returned, the occupants of a victoria bowed 
to him, and he was conscious of starting as the 
wheels flashed by; he wondered what had been 
thought of his abstraction. He felt as dreary as he 
had ever felt amid the dust of the Diamond Fields. 
In the oppression that weighed upon him, the hot, 
wide street looked quite as barren, the life for 
which he had paid too great a price seemed just 
as blank. How little it all meant, how soon one 
got used to everything! The expensive houses — 
he was master of one; the passing carriages — he, 
too, had a carriage; the young men, waxed and 
varnished — equally expressionless, only their neck- 
ties and their ‘button-holes’ differentiating them — it 
was not long ago that he had envied their credit 
at their tailors! 

He had turned the corner, and as he crossed 
from the shade of the trees to the pavement, he 
saw Rosa on the steps. 

Evidently her inquiry had been answered; if he 
had been a minute later, she would have re-entered 
the hansom. Now it was impossible to avoid her, 
and he advanced heavily, wishing that at least the 
man had shut the door before they met. 


266 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“Oh, you were out!” she exclaimed; “I didn’t 
suppose it was true.” 

He affected to overlook her excitement, and 
made an abortive effort towards persuasion. 

“You are in a hurry,” he said. “Let us get in 
the cab — we can talk as we go along.” 

The servant still waited, an impassive witness, 
and Rosa walked past him without replying. It 
was plain that to oppose her would be to create a 
scene in the hall. After an instant’s hesitation, 
Maurice followed, and led the way to the smoking- 
room. 

“I have just wired to you,” he said. 

“Really? It was about time, I think.” 

“I wired that I would call this evening.” 

“Did you, indeed? Well, Fve come instead, you 
see! I’ve come to hear what you’ve got to say.” 

“I don’t understand,” said Maurice; “what is the 
matter? I hope you haven’t come to quarrel? I 
answered as quickly as I could.” 

“We won’t talk about your answer,” she said — 
her voice shook, and she pressed her hands to- 
gether tightly — “I’ve come to talk about my visit. 
. . . Understand this: you’ve got to invite me 

to Pangbourne. I don’t choose to ask favours of 
you any more. I think you must be mad to sup- 
pose you can treat me in the way you do. . . . 

I think you must be mad to suppose you can have 
267 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

all the money, and all the 'say/ after what I’ve 
done. Eve as much right to everything as you 
have. You’ve put me off with a few hundred a 
year, while you keep thousands; you tell me you 
can’t do this, and you can’t do the other. Re- 
member who you are! . . . You’ve got to in- 

vite me to Pangbourne; I’ve borne just as much as 
I mean to bear. Whether you like it, or whether 
you don’t like it, you’ve got to do it. You had 
better learn the sort of woman you’re dealing 
with! You’ve snapped your fingers at me too 
long!” 

Maurice took a turn about the room before he 
spoke. When he faced her, his tone was studiously 
quiet. 

“You are talking very wildly,” he said. 

“I am saying what I mean.” 

“Yes; please let me go on. You are talking very 
wildly, and there is nothing to be gained by it. I 
can’t do impossibilities, even to avoid a quarrel 
with you; it isn’t in my power to ask you to Pang- 
bourne. I quite sympathize with your disappoint- 
ment; I will do the little I can to console you. But 
I can’t give you half my income now I’m married, 
and I can’t give you the invitation.” 

“Will you introduce me to your wife, and let 
me have a chance with her.?** 


268 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

"No,” said Maurice; “I am sorry, but I can’t do 
that either.” 

“Ah!” she cried; “and why not? Why not, if 
you sympathize, as you say you do? Oh, you 
must take me for a fool to tell me such lies!” 

“Mrs. Fleming,” he said, “you make me give 
you an answer that goes very much against the 
grain. I’m a thief, but .... I have my con- 
ventions like other husbands. As a woman of the 
world, you should know that I can’t introduce you 
to my wife.” 

She lowered at him dully, at first failing to grasp 
the sense of his reply. It dawned upon her that 
he meant she was unfit to associate with the wom- 
an who had frustrated all her plans. She opened 
her mouth to curse him, but she could only pant. 

“I do sympathize with you,” he continued, hast- 
ily. “If I could give you the six thousand a year 
out of my own pocket, I would. I’ll think what 
I can do; you must understand, without my telling 
you, that once or twice even the share you have 
has been difficult to manage. ... If I could 
explain where it went, it wouldn’t matter. I must 
think. Perhaps 1 can raise money, since you aren’t 
satisfied.” 

She made no response. She was realizing what 
his marriage had cost her from first to last. 

“Come, don’t let us part bad friends,” he said. 


269 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“As you’re here, you may as well take your cheque 
now, instead of next week. And we have been 
very quiet: I can even draw it for five hundred if 
you like.” 

He wrote it, eager to be rid of her, but when he 
rose and held it out, she did not move. 

“Come,” he repeated, putting it down, “don’t let 
us part bad friends.” 

She began to revile him then — slowly, articulat- 
ing by an effort — and he only interrupted her once, 
when she mentioned his wife. Some seconds 
passed while he listened to her. 

When she ceased, he spoke again; he was by this 
time almost as white as she. 

“It can do no good to prolong our interview,” 
he said. “It is quite true that I have broken my 
word to you; and circumstances must always pre- 
vent my keeping it. To tell me that I had no right 
to marry is only to say something that I’m con- 
scious of in every minute of my life; but nobody 
has done you any wrong except myself.” He 
stood waiting for her to go. 

Helen came into the room, with her mother’s 
telegram in her hand. 

“Philip,” she said, “I thought you would like to 
know that my mother wires ” 

“I’ll come to you!” he exclaimed, starting for- 
ward. 


270 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


She had paused at the sight of the woman. In- 
stinct had named the woman, and his words con- 
firmed her instinct. Her heart seemed to jerk to 
her throat, and her knees trembled. She turned 
to the door; but Rosa was reckless. 

“Lady Helen,” she said, urgently, “I’m glad to 
meet you! I’m sure Sir Adolphus has talked of 
‘Mrs. Fleming’?” 

For a moment Helen wavered, questioning still. 
Maurice committed the first of two mistakes — he 
picked up the cheque; and she saw what he did. 
The room lurched; she knew an agony of fear that 
she was going to betray her agitation, but her pride 
rose supreme. Her indifferent gaze met the other’s 
— and ignored her; it was the only sign she made 
of having heard. 

The blood surged to Rosa’s head; she was filled 
by an ungovernable impulse to defy them both. 

“Your husband,” she added, insolently, “has just 
invited me to stay with you at Pangbourne; I’ve 
told him that I shall be very pleased to go.” 

Maurice’s second error was delay. He had to 
cope with a woman who had lost her senses, and 
there was an instant in which he stood irresolute, 
daunted by the thought of what he might provoke. 
His hesitancy was fatal. 

Helen spoke now, not to Rosa, but to him; her 
intonation was perfectly level, perfectly distinct: 


271 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“I am sorry,” she said, “that I must decline to 
receive Mrs. Fleming — either at Pangbourne or 
here. You will be good enough to make her un- 
derstand that my house is not open to her.” 

“There isn’t any question of your receiving her,” 
he said in a quick undertone. “I’ll come to you 
directly; go back to the drawing-room at once.” 

But in Rosa the limits of endurance could be 
strained no further. All her pulses clamoured to re- 
taliate, to destroy; and nothing else mattered. Her 
single thought was requital, her sole anxiety was 
that she would not have time to taste the triumph. 

“You ‘decline to receive,”’ she gasped; “your 
‘house isn’t open’? I’ve as much right in the house 
as you have!” 

Before she could say any more Maurice sprang 
to her; he clapped his hand on her mouth. 

“Go, go!” he said to Helen. “I’ll explain after- 
wards. In God’s name, why don’t you go?” 

The power of moving seemed to have left her; 
she was spellbound by the woman’s struggle to 
speak. During the few horrible seconds in which 
he stood holding back ruin, Maurice wondered if 
he would have done better to seize Helen instead, 
and thrust her from the room. 

The sound stunned him at last: 

“I’ve as much right here as either of you! His 
272 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


name isn’t Philip Jardine at all — he’s a damned 
impostor I can send to gaol!” 

After the sound came silence — a silence more 
fearful than any sound in life. After a long time, 
he forced his eyes to Helen’s face. It was rigid; it 
was like the face of a woman who had died of 
fright. The silence became too tense to be borne; 
Rosa herself was appalled by it, but the return of 
reason chilled her veins, and speech had frozen 
in her. Triumph, and even resentment, congealed. 
She felt dizzy and afraid as she realized what she 
had done. Still nobody spoke. No scream, no out- 
burst of despair, could have had the awfulness of 
the overpowering silence which seemed as if it 
would never end. 

Presently, watching his wife’s lips, Maurice 
heard her whisper: 

“Tell her to go.” 

He went to the door, and opened it. 

“Are you satisfied?” he said; “you can do no 
more.” 

Rosa*moved towards him slowly. She answered 
nothing; she did not look at him as she passed. 
The thought of escaping from the room filled her 
with relief. 

He waited while she crossed the hall — until the 
outer door was slammed. Then he turned; and the 
weight of silence sank upon the room again. . . . 


273 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“What shall I say?” 

She stared before her speechlessly. 

“What shall I say? You know now; I have done 
you the worst injury a woman ever suffered. I’ve 

no defence; but — I loved you, I that’s all, I 

loved you! ... I meant to go away, never to 
tell you. I shuddered at my thought of making 
you my wife; I struggled, I did, I did, but — oh, my 
God, I loved you! ... I believed the disgrace 
could never touch you — only she knew — I thought 
you were safe. . . . Helen — Helen!” He took a 
step towards her, and shrank as he met her eyes. 
“I gave her all I could to keep her quiet; I would 
have done anything but allow her to know you. 

. . . I am a thief — what she said is true; they 

might put me in the dock; but my punishment, my 
degradation, have come — to stand before you like 
this.” 

“A thief,” she moaned, “a thief!” 

“I gave her all I could,” he muttered; “I thought 
you were safe.” 

She put her hands to her head, gazing at him 
wildly. 

“Who . . . are you?” she asked. 

“My name is Maurice Blake,” he said; “I used 
to be a gentleman.” 

“I think I am going mad,” she said; “my head 


274 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


feels . . . No! don’t touch me. There — stay 

there — tell me all.” 

“I thought you were safe,” he repeated. 

“No — no, the beginning — all.” 

“He died when I was with him — the real man — 
we were very much alike. That woman was his 
mistress — I persuaded her to help me. ... I 
was poor; I’ve been very near starvation in my 
life. . . . My father lost a fortune, and died 

in want. Poverty killed my sister — she was a lady, 
you wouldn’t have refused to know her; she died 
of cruel work, and too little to eat. ... I said 
there was only one god : Money! And the chance 
came. . . . There was no one to be dis- 
placed — I had only to call myself ‘Jardine.’ . . . 

Ah, what can you know — you! — of what the chance 
meant to a man like me? I took it! And — and — 
I’ll be candid — I didn’t feel much shame until I 
met you. I had never spoken to such a woman as 
you — I imagined you when I was a beggar ! Since 
you have been my wife, conscience has made my life 
a curse. . . . It’s too late, it’s too late! My 

love was my worst crime, but — you had it all. I 
sinned to you because I couldn’t conquer my love 
for you — I’ve ruined you because I loved you. For 
God’s sake — for God Almighty’s sake — don’t look 
like that — your horror’s killing me!” 

“‘Love’!” she said, hoarsely. “Speak of your 


275 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

poverty, not your ‘love’ — I know you! . . . . 

You have degraded me . . . you have made 

me a thief ; you have done me every wrong a man 
can do a woman — you haven’t spared me one. 
Oh, my mother did well; I might have married my 
cousin — she gave me to you instead!” 

“Helen!” he cried; “Helen, I loved you!” 

“She gave me to you,” she said through her 
teeth; “to you, without honesty, without con- 
science! . . . Let me go!” 

“I loved you!” He had clutched her dress. 

“I hate you; I hate you. I pray that I may never* 
see you again. I thank God my baby died !” 

“Give me a word! You are my all! You make 
my heaven or my hell by what you say .... 
Helen, have pity!” 

“I have none!” she said. She dragged her skirt 
from his hold; and he stood in the room alone. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


When she opened the door again, he was in the 
chair to which he had stumbled as she left him. 
He could not guess how long ago that was, but he 
saw that she was going away. 

He got up; and the sun shone on their faces 
while he waited for her to speak. 

“There is something I want to say to you first,” 
she said, in a low, monotonous voice. “I am going 
to Whichcote; I shan’t see you any more.” 

“No,” he said, since she paused, “I understand; 
you won’t see me any more.” 

“I — I have been thinking, as well as I can think 
yet. She said she could — could punish you. . . . 
Will she?” 

“It’s not likely; she would punish herself at the 
same time.” 

“I thought so. . But she said it.” 

“She was mad; she would have told all London 
this afternoon. She must be sorry enough by 
now.” 

“If she did — I mean if it were known — what 
could they do to you?” 


2 77 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“Do to me?” he said, dully. “It's penal servi- 
tude, I suppose.” 

She shivered and shut her eyes. 

“Who?” she said, “Who would it be?” 

“ ‘Who’?” 

“Who would have to do it — your father? — I 
mean — I mean Sir Noel?” 

“Yes, Sir Noel would have to prosecute; I don’t 
know that he would.” 

“But he might.” 

“Yes, he might, of course; but I don’t fancy you 
need fear a public scandal — I — I fancy you will be 
spared that.” 

“I was thinking of you” she said. . . . “He 

has always been fond of you; I can hardly realize 
that he would treat you like a common — like ” 

“Perhaps not. He would hesitate on your ac- 
count — I might escape because of you. . . . 
That would crown my career.” 

“But ... on the other hand, he is fond of 
you because he believes you are his son,” she said, 
thickly. “If he knew that you are a stranger who 
— if he knew what you have done, how can you be 
sure what his feelings would be then?” 

“ ‘Sure!’ I have scarcely wondered yet; I have 
been thinking of your feelings, not of his.” 

“I have thought all the time,” she said; “I have 
thought of all you say : that you will persuade that 
278 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


woman to keep the secret, and that you are only 
afraid of me — that your safety depends on me! 
And I thought that Sir Noel might hesitate for our 
sake — for my mother’s and mine; I thought of that. 
. . . I thought what I would say. But . . . 

he might refuse; and then it would be too late. 
After I had told, it would be too late.” The lump 
in her throat was choking her; she swallowed con- 
vulsively. “I want you to know that I shall not 
betray you. You must do as you please; I shall 
never touch another penny of his money. I am 
leaving everything — every single thing that you 
have paid for — but — but I will not run the risk of 
sending you to prison; I suppose I shall be as 
guilty as you — but I cannot run that risk.” 

By the twitching of his lips she saw that he was 
trying to speak. Then on a sudden he covered his 
eyes: 

“I — I thank you,” he said, in a whisper; “you 
have always been the grandest woman God ever 
made. My sins are my own — I wouldn’t have your 
conscience troubled to save my neck. And now 
I’ve lost you, what do I care for the rest? It’s you 
I want, not the money. To let you sin for me? I 
would damn myself a thousand times first. I 
would have damned myself a thousand times to 
spare you what you’re suffering! If you hadn t 
come in, I should have quieted her; you would 


279 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


have been safe. It doesn’t matter — I suppose it 
was meant to be — but why did you refuse to speak 
to her? You knew nothing; and — and it was that 
that did it all.” 

“I had heard,” she answered; “I heard some time 
ago. My mother will think that is why I have left 
you — because of her .” 

“You ‘heard some time ago’ . . . when you 

questioned me? You heard what?” 

“There is no need to deny it; our life together 
has been ended anyhow. I mean that I had heard 
what she was to you; and when I came in, there 
was the cheque.” 

He pieced her words into a coherent whole. 

“You think that I have been false to you?” he 
exclaimed; “Good heavens! how little you know 
yourself.” 

“Do you tell me I am mistaken?” she faltered. 

“I swear by — by You that since I have known 
you — since the first day I saw you — there has been 
no other woman in the world to me. I was true to 
you when I thought you would never belong to 
me! And she — she was never anything! I have 
never thought of her in such a way. The cheque? 
The cheque was her share; there have been many 
cheques.” 

“She was seen in your rooms . . . at night! 

That was before you married me; but once — once 


280 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


it must have been so? Oh, it doesn’t matter — then 
or now! I don’t care; it’s nothing to me.” 

“I know it’s nothing to you,” he said, “less now 
than ever; and I know that I have been nothing to 
you; but, guilty as I am, I am innocent of that. I 
can’t expect you to believe anything I say — but I 
am innocent of that! She did come to my rooms 
one night — I remember; it was after I had left you, 
while I was struggling to keep away from you. 
Yes, she came there, and Boulger came in — I re- 
member! It was twelve, I think. There was no 
harm. If I were dying, and they were my last 
words: I have been true to you from the hour we 
met!” 

His eyes besought her, and she bent her head. 
It had come too late to make her happiness, but 
she marvelled that she could be so glad; she mar- 
velled that faith in this could lighten the horror 
that lay upon her brain. 

“I believe you,” she said. 

“God bless you. You have shown me more 
mercy than many a woman who had loved me 
would have shown. Don’t fear my shielding my- 
self behind your silence — I must say that again and 
again in our good-by. And your life shan’t be 
ruined — I’ll take care of your name. Tell your 
mother what you choose, but be guided by her till 
you hear of me again — it won’t be long.” 


281 


THE WORLDLINGS, 


“I shall not put you in danger,” she declared. 
“What I have said, I mean. You will confess, or 
not; I have given you my word.” 

“I understand.” 

“I think that is all. ... I am going.” 

“Wait,” he said, “I am considering you. . . . 

Write to somebody — one or two friends — that you 
are staying at Whichcote till your mother is better. 
. . . Invite some more people to go to us at 

Pangbourne. Don’t forget. Write at once.” 

“What is the use?” she muttered; “we shall 
never be seen together any more. ‘Pangbourne!’ 
Even if you escape punishment, everyone will 
know we spend our lives apart.” 

“I am considering you,” he repeated; “it’s your 
name I’ve been thinking about ever since you went 
upstairs. Do what I say. ... It doesn’t seem 
quite real to be speaking to you for the last time — 
but I know I am. Don’t hate me more than you 
can help; I am thankful that you believe I have 
been true to you. I hope by-and-by you will be 
able to forget something of what I’ve made you 
suffer. You’re very young, and if the world doesn’t 
know, it will be easier for you; trust me, I’ll do my 
best to prevent that. Of course you’ll always re- 
member that I didn’t love you well enough to act 
fairly to you; but perhaps, later on, you’ll try to 


282 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


believe that I loved you with the greatest love I 
was capable of. ... I don’t want to cant, or 
to be a coward — you’d better go.” 

His teeth were set, and he clenched his hands 
that he mightn’t lift them to her. 

“Good-by,” she said, brokenly. 

“Good-by, Helen,” he said. 

She went out. 


283 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


Rosa had tumbled on the couch; her eyes were 
dilated, her hands impotent and wet. The explo- 
sion no longer reverberated, but she lay crushed in 
the ruin. Earlier, the reaction had held the relief 
of hysterical tears, but now the vehemence of de- 
spair, like the fury of resentment, had passed. She 
never moved; her stare never wavered; she lay 
where she had fallen, thinking. 

What would happen? She had wrecked her 
world. That she had detruded others neither trou- 
bled nor consoled her. She was faint with horror. 
Everything was over; this morning all her future 
had been safeguarded — this afternoon she was a 
beggar. For an instant she questioned whether 
Maurice might not approach her, whether his wife 
might not lend herself to the fraud in order to re- 
tain her position, but theihope sank as it came. It 
was too wild; a woman like that did not do such 
things. No, she repeated it; everything was over, 
her future was a blank; a few pounds, a few dia- 
monds, these were all that remained. 

Would she be prosecuted? Only when this fear 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


recurred to her, a shiver mounted from her vitals 
and twitched her mouth. She had sought to extir- 
pate the dread by the reminder that she was safe 
unless Sir Noel proceeded against Maurice — that 
to imprison him would cover his wife, and his wife’s 
family, with disgrace — that they would do their ut- 
most to avert it; but now misgiving mastered her 
again. Supposing that in their wrath they wished 
to see him punished, or supposing that their efforts 
failed? The baronet was harsh, vindictive — she had 
learnt his character from his son, long before Blake 
professed to read it — perhaps he would be obdurate. 
Then a new terror sprang into being; she remem- 
bered the term “compounding a felony”; it flashed 
upon her that condonation itself might be punish- 
able; he might be forced to prosecute! 

Beyond the flaring phrase the Law was dark to 
her; she knew nothing of its subtilization; she was 
as ignorant of the name of her offence as of the 
penalty annexed to it. She heard herself sentenced, 
like Maurice, to penal servitude. 

Fright leapt to her throat; she turned dizzy and 
sick. Suddenly the thought of escape entered her 
bruised brain. Why should she wait; even if she 
cowered before a scarecrow, why should she wait? 
She had nothing to gain by it; it would be to incur 
a risk for nothing! Her income, her hope of mar- 
riage, had melted into black air; suicide that she 
285 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


was, she had not even seized the last cheque ob- 
tainable! Why should she wait; for what? . . . 

She would go abroad at once — she would go back 
to America! Yes, she would leave here early in the 
morning; she must pawn her jewels. In the States 
. . . Well, she would never starve! 

She must determine her movements — she mustn’t 
delay. How difficult it was! Her mind swirled, and 
her memory had gone; she had to struggle to recall 
familiar facts. She tried to repress her agitation, to 
look straight ahead, but her tortuous thoughts 
tricked her a dozen times; a dozen times reflection 
forsook her utterly, and she succumbed to helpless- 
ness. 

She would move early in the morning to some lit- 
tle hotel in quite a different quarter — the most un- 
likely quarter — Bermondsey, Bow. Were there 
hotels in Bermondsey, or Bow? Islington! she 
would move to an hotel in Islington. . . . She must 
discharge Emilie first. If she left her here, and pre- 
tended to be coming back, it might prove a blunder. 
It would be safer to pay the wages that she couldn’t 
afford, and to get rid of her. What would she be 
able to raise on the jewelry? She could not add the 
prices; and no doubt she had been- cheated. She 
might get a hundred; perhaps a hundred and fifty. 
She mustn’t drive direct to the hotel — she might be 


286 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


traced by means of the cabman. No, she would 
drive to Charing Cross, and leave her luggage in 
the cloak room while she booked her passage. She 
would book it in an assumed name. Then she 
would have her trunks put on another cab, and hide 
herself until the day the boat sailed. ... If 
they meant to arrest her, they might have the ports 
watched? . . . Well, she would go from Liver- 

pool, and write to Blake that she was returning to 
the Cape — they could watch the wrong one! . . . 

Perhaps a note wouldn’t be opened? A telegram 
was more likely to attract attention. . . . But 

she could not be confidential enough in a telegram; 
if she didn’t appear confidential and contrite, they 
might suspect that the motive of the message was 
to throw them off the scent. . . . She would 

write a note marked “Private”; if they wanted her, 
they would be certain to open that. She would say 
— what should she say? It must sound very natural 
— it must sound impulsive. Two or three lines 
would be best. 

The clock struck. For the first time she was 
aware that the room had grown quite dark; she was 
bewildered to realize how long ago it was that the 
idea of flight presented itself. She had told Emilie 
that she was not to be disturbed, but now there was 
the packing* to* be done, and the dismissal to be 
287 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


given. And she was weak, worn out; since she 
could not eat, she must drink. She put her feet to 
the ground, and lifted herself feebly. Her clothes 
feltf damp, and she tottered a little when she stood. 
Then she steadied herself by the table, and groped, 
clammy and nerveless, towards the bell. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


Helen had gone; they had parted. There were 
moments when Maurice repeated it, because it 
seemed unreal once more, too swift and too strange 
for actuality; moments when the suddenness of the 
disjunction scattered his thoughts, and pain was 
deadened by stupor. They had parted. It sounded 
impossible, and yet nothing in life could have been 
more natural — nothing more unnatural than that 
they should have remained together. 

He had dined, or made a semblance of dining; 
the servants must have no grounds for comment. 
The fact of their existence recurred to him more 
pressingly than it would have done to a man in- 
durated to the espionage of the least grateful class. 
He had sat through dinner, and swallowed tasteless 
food, and drunk a couple of glasses of claret; and 
now he returned to the smoking-room, and pon- 
dered again. 

Helen had left him; she was never coming back. 
Nor could he ever implore her to come back; he 
could not have implored her to come back even had 
she loved him, for after he confessed, he would have 


289 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


nothing to offer her; he would not have a home. 
That would be the end, when he confessed; he could 
walk into the streets without a prospect. He was 
thankful that he was nothing to her — if she had 
loved him, the blow would have been heavier to her 
still. 

He could walk out of the house without a pros- 
pect; if he took no more than he owned, without a 
shilling; but possibly they would desire him to go 
abroad? It might be understood that he had gone 
to one of those places where men sometimes disap- 
peared in quest of big game; they might hush the 
shame up? It could not be hushed up forever, 
though. How could they account for his not suc- 
ceeding to the property? They would have to say 
that he had died. It would be very risky; he 
couldn’t make a living in a desert — he might be rec- 
ognized one day. 

And even if her world imagined he was dead, he 
would still be her husband. In every hour she 
would remember. Time promised nothing in a case 
like this. Time could bring neither forgiveness for 
such an injury nor the right to beseech it. No mat- 
ter how hard he worked, he could not work a mira- 
cle; work as he might, his poverty and his sin would 
divide them. 

She had never cared for him. She had accepted 
him for his position; and the position was lost. 


290 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


She might have married her cousin, she had said. 
If her one false step could be retraced, she might 
wish to marry him yet. As it was, she could marry 
no one; she would always be the wife of a scoun- 
drel who had blasted her life. She had trusted him; 
and as long as he lived the mistake would be ir- 
reparable. She was barely twenty-seven; as long 
as he lived, forgetfulness would be denied to her. 
Whether the disgrace of his imprisonment fell 
upon her, or not, whether strangers believed her 
free, or not, he would be standing between her 
and the chance of happiness as long as he lived. 

It all pointed to one course; he had seen it before 
she said good-by to him; the only thing he could 
do for her was to kill himself. As soon as he was 
dead her anguish would be over. Nobody could 
ever know anything then. Her name would have 
been saved, and she would again have a future. 
She would be in the same position as if he had 
been the real man. 

But there must be no suspicion of suicide; it 
must look like a mishap. If he shot himself, he 
would spare her much, but not all. In every West 
End club and drawing-room his act would be a 
nine days’ wonder; in default of an explanation, 
several would be invented. Ultimately the situa- 
tion would not lack a beast to slander her, to raise 
his eyebrows, and say, “My dear fellow, don’t you 


291 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


know?” The calumny would only be credited by 
those who were avid to impute dishonour to any 
woman; but they were numerous enough. At the 
thought of such a whisper, the man’s biceps tight- 
ened. No, he had to do it so that his death wore 
the air of an accident. But how? He stretched 
out his hand for his pipe, and filled it meditatively. 
How? 

He must decide at once — in the meanwhile she 
was suffering. Could he drown himself? If they 
had been at Pangbourne, that might have been 

the best way; here, however The pistol came 

to his mind continually; he could think of little 
else. . . . Presently he recollected that where 

he had stayed in New York a man had nearly lost 
his life through an escape of gas during the night. 
Was that plan feasible? To make it sure, he would 
have to fasten the window, and to close the reg- 
ister; and in the morning the housemaid would 

Even then there might be enough ventilation to 
frustrate him. 

Abruptly his thoughts took another turn. Since 
he was going to die, what necessity was there to 
confess? It demanded no courage — it could not 
harm him in the smallest degree — but it seemed 
to him that it would be rather cruel. It would be 
to give an old man who was fond of him a great 


292 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


grief for nothing. In the circumstances it would be 
needlessly brutal, he considered, rather cheap. 

But again, how? Men had taken poison by mis- 
take. Could he arrange matters so that 

But everybody knew the danger of an overdose of 
that! and no medicine that he could recall was 
sold in such small phials; it would be evident that 
he had drunk the bottleful by design. . . . Dr. 

Sanders had once said that suicide by hypodermic 
injection might defy discovery; they had been talk- 
ing of a fraud on an assurance company. He had 
said that even the cleverest medical man might be 
deceived. What did one have to ask for? the 
details were forgotten. Besides, the things would 
be found afterwards, and How had Dr. Sand- 

ers explained away the things? ... It was a 
pity that the crash hadn’t come at Pangbourne — 
her release might have been immediate! 

Dawn was breaking when he put down the pipe, 
and went to his dressing-room. The thought of 
death engrossed him, and the consciousness of her 
absence was dormant until he realized that me- 
chanically he was moving on tiptoe. The poignancy 
of loss leapt in him afresh. He opened the other 
door; he looked at the empty bed, and saw the 
room at Oakenhurst. Did she sleep yet? Pie 
buried his face in the pillow that hers had pressed 
last night, and hated himself that he was still alive. 

293 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


All through the morrow his brain sought the 
means to set her free. It was not until the eve- 
ning that he determined what to do. It must hap- 
pen at Pangbourne next week; the delay couldn’t 
be helped. He would write to Sir Dolly that Helen 
was joining him there in a few days, that she and 
her mother were coming together as soon as Lady 
Wrensfordsley was well. He would ask him not 
to postpone his visit. Casually he would mention 
that he was mastering the management of an out- 
rigger, or a Canadian canoe, and rose at sunrise 
every morning to avoid the derision of spectators. 
He might invite Fred Boulger, too, so that he could 
say the same thing to somebody else. Then one 
morning he would go out in the boat, and come 
back again; and the next morning the boat would 
be found bottom upward, and he wouldn’t come 
back. He would drown, he swore it. It would 
be a ghastly effort to refrain from swimming, he 
supposed, but he could lock his hands and remem- 
ber it was for Her. 

The nine o’clock post was delivered. There 
were three letters. Two of them were for Helen; 
the other was Rosa’s note to himself. His curiosity 
to see what she could still find to say was of the 
slightest; he put the letters for Helen in an en- 
velope, and directed it to “Lady Helen Jardine.” 
He might have known that she had not written, but 


294 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


suddenly he had hoped to hear from her as the man 
entered the room. He wondered that he could 
have been so foolish. There was only this! 

His impulse was to destroy it unread, but he 
broke the seal, and glanced at the contents indif- 
ferently. She was going to the Cape, and he would 
not hear from her again; his recriminations would 
never reach her, so he could save himself the 
trouble of making them; it was no use to tell him 
that she was sorry ! The last was a postscript. 

He tore the paper into infinitesimal pieces, and 
dropped them in the basket. No, it was no use at 
all, he agreed with her; nothing on earth could be 
more futile. 

So she was disappearing; she had fired her shot 
and was staggered by the recoil. His wife would 
be silent in mercy, and Rosa Fleming would hold 
her tongue in fear. The circumstances were very 
propitious! If he liked, the position that he had 
sinned for might be retained; he need neither con- 
fess, nor die. He need only take Helen at her 
word! 

He smiled. Now that he knew her agony would 
cease in ten days, half his own had rolled away. 
He revolved his project patiently, debating whether 
it left any opening for suspicion. He could see 
none. It appeared to him perfect save for the 
drawback that the house was not at their disposal 


295 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


until the thirtieth of the month. Sir Adolphus’s 
presence in it would be no drawback — he assuredly 
would not get up at sunrise; and as to Boulger, he 
would never be there at all, for he could be asked 
to come a fortnight hence. 

That night Maurice slept more peaceful. 

The following day was Sunday. In the after- 
noon, for the first time since she had gone, he 
wandered from the drawing-room into the boudoir, 
and touched the trifles that had belonged to her. 
There was a book with a jade paper-knife pro- 
truding from it; he remembered an insignificant 
remark that she had made when she looked at the 
title, and that he had watched her cut the leaves. 
There was her music on the piano; her birds were 
singing in the fernery beyond the open door. When 
he shut his eyes, the scent of the heliotrope gave 
her back to him. After a little while he heard 
Plummer usher in a visitor, and started as a familiar 
cough told him who the visitor was. For a mo- 
ment he stood disconcerted, questioning. Then he 
returned to the drawing-room, and Sir Noel looked 
sharply round. 

“Oh, you are at home,” he said; “the man was 
not sure! Well, you see I have come to town — • 
I have come to hear what it all means. What is the 
meaning of it, eh? The news has upset me very 
296 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


much.” He wiped the heat drops from his fore- 
head with his handkerchief. 

“You should have sent me a wire,” said Maurice; 
“if you wanted me I could have gone to you. You 
must be tired. I’ll tell him to bring you some 
wine.” 

He rang the bell before a protest could be made, 
but when the servant reappeared Sir Noel would 
have nothing. His fingers drummed his knees im- 
patiently until the interruption was past, and the 
door had no sooner closed than he broke out: 

“Lady Wrensfordsley came to me this morning; 
I could scarcely believe what I heard! She wished 
to come to you, but Helen had made her promise 
not to approach you/ It is a very scandalous thing, 
Philip. I cannot make it out. I — I am terribly dis- 
tressed.” 

“Lady Wrensfordsley was laid up,” murmured 
Maurice, at a loss how to reply; “is she all right 
again now, then?” 

“Yes, she is all right. Well, well, well, you have 
not told me if it is true! I am waiting to hear what 
has happened. I understand that your wife has left 
you, and that you offer no opposition — that you 
were quite willing for her to go. It is extraordinary! 
What does it mean? Is it a fact?” 

“Yes,” said Maurice, “it is a fact. I couldn’t 


297 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

oppose her going. How is she — have you seen 
her?” 

“I have only seen Lady Wrensfordsley — Helen 
did not know that she was coming to me. She was 
in great grief. And there is no explanation made; 
she is quite in the dark. Helen says nothing but 
that she will not go back to you. At first her 
mother hoped it was only a quarrel, but she seems 
to think it is quite serious, that you intend it to be a 
separation. You yourself tell me that it is so?” 

Maurice nodded. 

“There is, I suppose, another woman? Already!” 

“Did Lady Wrensfordsley say that?” asked 
Maurice. 

“She told me that Helen had suspected it for 
some time, but now she denies it — that she says she 
was mistaken. Her mother thought that was the 
reason; but she said, ‘No/ ” 

“I’m glad,” said Maurice. “No, there’s no other 
woman, sir. There never has been.” 

“Then why have you parted — about what? Your 
wife has gone, and you do nothing to bring her 
back? You — you do not attempt to make it up 
with her?” He rose nervously and laid his hand on 
Maurice’s arm. “It can’t be that — that you have 
found out something?” 

“Good God!” gasped Maurice; “she is the noblest 
woman in the world.” 


298 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“Then — then — I have a right to be answered; I 
have come to hear what has taken place. You think 
so much of her, yet you let her go? I insist on your 
explaining to me. If it is not her fault, it is yours. 
It has got to be put straight. I have promised to 
use my influence with you. You must bring her 
home — you must return with me to-day.” 

“I can’t. Helen wouldn’t wish it, sir. I let her 
go because it was impossible to prevent it; it’s im- 
possible to bring her back.” 

“Are you mad?” said Sir Noel, shrilly; “do you 
understand what it is you are talking about? One 
would think you were a boy! What do you sup- 
pose people will say? I think she must be mad, 
too. Her mother is in despair, I tell you! We 
have got to know what it all means. If you refuse 
to answer me, I shall go to Helen myself. These 
things can’t be allowed to happen !” 

“You mustn’t do that,” exclaimed Maurice; “she 
has borne all she can!” 

“She has ‘borne’ — you have treated her badly? 
Then it was not true what you said: you have been 
unfaithful to her?” 

“No.” 

“No? But ” His voice cracked with anger; 

“What then? What else can she have had to bear 
— you are not a navvy to ill-use her. Damn it, you 
299 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


are exasperating me, Philip! Why do you make a 
secret of it; can’t you speak?” 

“It is. between her and me,” said Maurice, after a 
pause. “That is all I can say.” 

“All you can All right! Then I will go to 

your wife; she shall say more. You have both of 
you a duty to others — you seem to forget that it 
also concerns her mother and myself! I shall try 
to make Helen remember it, since you don’t. It is 
disgraceful!” 

Maurice looked at him with harassed eyes. “If 
you question Helen,” he stammered, “you will tor- 
ture her — and you will learn nothing. She will 
never tell you; but she’ll suffer cruelly!” 

“We shall see,” said Sir Noel. “Perhaps you will 
oblige me by ordering a cab?” 

“If I refuse to answer, it is simply because it 
would be a blow to you, and it isn’t in the least 
necessary that you should ever know.” 

“That is a matter for me to judge. May I 
trouble you to ring? I am waiting to go.” 

Maurice took a few slow paces, and turned 
thoughtfully. 

“Very well,” he said, “I will tell you. I think 
you had better sit down, sir.” 

Nearly thirty seconds passed while he considered 
how to say it — how to avoid stunning him with the 
five words that said it all. 


300 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“When your son wrote to you from the Diamond 
Fields,” he began, as gently as if he had been speak- 
ing to a child, “there was a man there called Blake 
— Maurice Blake. They were acquaintances; they 
were both broke. The other man was very like 
your son. . . . After you got the letter, your 

son caught camp fever. Before your draft was 
delivered he had died. . . . Do you under- 

stand?” 

The old bewildered face was still attentive; the 
change in it did not come. 

“He had died?” murmured Sir Noel; “no; no, I 
do not understand. Who had died? The other 
man — ‘Blake/ What of it?” 

“No.” His gaze was fastened on him. “Think 
what I have said — they were very much alike ! . . 

The one who died was your son. / am Blake.” 

Even then, only the sense of calamity seemed to 
have reached the old man’s brain. The dawn of 
comprehension in the eyes was slow. The colour 
sank slowly from the wrinkled face, and left it grey. 
He began to tremble; he understood. Twice his 
lips moved, and Maurice listened, but no sound 
came. 

“You are ‘Blake,’” he said at last, tonelessly; 
“you are not my son.” He said it as if he were 
trying to teach himself a lesson. 


301 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“I am not your son.” 

The white head drooped lower and lower, and 
there was a long silence. The clock had ticked 
away almost a minute before Sir Noel spoke again: 

“You are not my son.” 

Maurice strode to the door. “Let me get you 
some brandy!” 

“No, no; no, I am all right. . . . Come 

back. Tell me everything; I want to hear. It is — 
it seems — it is difficult to realize. Philip is dead — 
you are not Philip at all!” 

“I have robbed you.” 

Sir Noel nodded. “Yes, I was thinking of my son 
— that I have not known him. . . . Philip is 

dead!” Then the most pathetic thing in life hap- 
pened: an old man began to cry. 

But the man who was watching him suffered no 
less. 

“Tell me everything,” repeated Sir Noel, pres- 
ently. “That is why Helen has gone; I see! Oh, 
how dared you marry her, how could you do it? 
You have — have — God! . . How did she dis- 

cover it?” 

“There was a woman your son used to know; she 
came to England with me. She gave me away out 
of spite.” 

“Your mistress?” 


302 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“No — his. My partner.” 

“Who is she? What is her name?” 

“She has gone abroad. The responsibility was 
mine. You needn’t try to punish her” 

“You have ruined that poor girl’s future. Your 
injury to me is bad enough — you have committed a 
fraud — but to Helen! No, she could never live 
with you for a day again, of course; no woman 
would go back to you. You are a scoundrel; you 
should be sent to prison! And you stand there 
like stone; you say nothing! Have you no peni- 
tence, no shame?” 

Maurice lifted his shoulders wearily; 

“It would be very cheap to talk of penitence, now 
I’m found out,” he said. “Who do you think 
would believe me? Would you f” 

“But when you — you took my boy’s place, you 
were in difficulties, eh? You were poor — it was a 
great temptation? You could not do such a thing 
without a struggle?” 

“I did it!” said Maurice, for answer. 

“You came to me without remorse! You pre- 
tended to feel affection for me while you stole my 
money. And — and I was fond of you — I was 
proud of you at last!” 

Maurice turned a little paler. 

“It sounds like a whine,” he said, “but you’re 


303 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


wrong in just one thing: I did feel what you thought 
I felt; that wasn’t pretence.” 

Because the assurance was so welcome, because 
he resented the weakness that urged him to accept 
it, the old man answered more bitterly: 

“I care nothing what you felt! You have cheated 
me out of all I gave; it was my son I loved, not 
you!” He started with a sudden thought. “He is 
dead? You are not deceiving me still?” 

“He is dead — he died as I have told you. He 
died in Lennox Street, Kimberley; he is buried in 
Kimberley. You can have the name of the doctor 
who attended him.” 

“He — he spoke of me sometimes?” The voice 
was very wistful. 

“Yes.” 

“I do not know anything. Since he was a boy 

I All that you told me when you arrived 

- — all that I believed, that I was happy to believe — 
that was Philip’s life, or yours?” 

“The farm was his; the rest of it was mine.” 

Sir Noel sighed. 

“And his?” he asked: “Should I have been 
happy to hear his? When we parted he — he was 
not all that I had hoped my boy would be; you 
know that! It has been my greatest joy to think 
he had reformed, that he had come home so differ- 


304 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


ent. It has been far more to me than everything 

else; and now ! Tell me: if he had lived, he 

would have been good to me? He spoke of me, 
you say, but — but not unkindly? He looked for- 
ward to our meeting? I should have been proud 
of my son, too? Give me the truth, if you have 
any conscience in you! Should I have been proud 
of my son?” 

Maurice marvelled that a further falsehood could 
be so abhorrent to him, but he did not hesitate. 
He met the pitiful gaze boldly, and lied with a will. 

“He spoke of you with affection and repentance 
always. His life was a clean one. He was an 
honest man and a gentleman, and a fine fellow. 
You would have been proud of your son.” 

“I thank God,” said Sir Noel — he drew a deep 
breath — “I thank God!” 

The silence was broken by Maurice. 

“What are you going to do?” 

“I shall see, I — I must think.” 

“If you will consent to keep quiet till next month, 
you will spare her a great deal. Only till the be- 
ginning of the month?” 

“I must think.” He pointed to the bell. 

“Let me beg you not to go yet; you aren’t fit to 
travel!” said Maurice. “Wait till the morning, sir; 
it is your own house. If you like, I’ll leave you in 
it.” 


305 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“No, no, I won’t stop; I am better now.” 

“There isn’t a train yet. Rest here alone. . . 

I’ll come back if you want me.” 

He went downstairs, and told Plummer to take 
the brandy to the drawing-room. No message was 
brought to him; and an hour later Sir Noel went 
away. 


306 


CHAPTER XXV. 


Coequal with her horror, there was in Helen’s 
mind a relief which amazed her, and which she 
sought to ignore. It had surprised her in the mo- 
ment of its birth; here at Whichcote the relief and 
the astonishment had increased. She had been 
mistaken! It mattered nothing; she reflected that 
Philip — that “Maurice”! — had been false to her in 
a way that all the world would hold incomparably 
viler; but there were seconds in which the thrill of 
thankfulness resembled joy. He loved her! He 

was her mind cowered before the word; but he 

loved her! 

For the most part she had passed the two days 
alone in the garden. With the circumstances unex- 
plained, companionship could not be assuasive — it 
was natural that her mother’s dismay should be 
mixed with irritation — and her only solace was soli- 1 
tude. In the garden she sat for hours, gazing 
blankly across the tree-tops, wondering if he would 
confess. She did not repent her pledge to him; 
though the burden of reticence was crushing her, 
the responsibility of revelation would have been 


307 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


heavier still. She could not feel that it was for her 
to proclaim the fact that might place him in the 
dock; but it was for him. A thousand times she 
asked herself if he would do it. Unlike her own as- 
surance, his had been made on impulse. Would it 
be fulfilled? She tried to view the situation with 
the eyes of a man who could act as this one had 
acted; and the standpoint terrified her. Why 
should he confess? To lift a weight from her con- 
science — the conscience of a woman who would 
never return to him? To free her from the sin of 
secrecy, which he might persuade himself was ve- 
nial, since she had no share in the gain? It 
would be to renounce all for nothing. He had 
smothered every scruple to win the position; he 
had demonstrated how precious it was to him; he 
had risked imprisonment for it; why shouldn’t he 
keep it, and live the lie out if he trusted her — and 
he knew that he could trust her? Dared she hope 
that when he had deliberated he would see any 
need to ruin himself, only to spare her a pain he 
could not understand? 

She longed for him to do the right thing; she 
longed for it passionately. While she re-lived the 
scene of their good-by, she believed that he would 
have the strength. It appeared to her more and 
more improbable that Sir Noel would be merciless 
to him; and, at the worst, she felt that it was better 

308 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

he should be sentenced than that he should prove 
himself callous. She felt that it was better for them 
both. It would be ghastly, unspeakable — she would 
be the wife of a convict; but she could think of him 
with pity then; she could reflect that he had done 
his duty at last, of his own free will; she would feel 
less degraded by her love. 

In her thoughts she had said it. By her love! 
She shivered; it was as if her nature and she had 
suddenly parted, as if she had been treacherous to 
it. That she was loved she had triumphed to re- 
member, repeating that it mattered nothing — -she 
was a woman; that she loved was an ignominy she 
could not face. 

On her third evening at Whichcote, Lady Wrens- 
fordsley said to her: 

“Helen, I went to see Sir Noel this morning. He 
has gone to town to see your husband.” 

Helen looked at her with parted lips. The news 
of the early drive had partially prepared her, but 
the announcement was still a shock. She did not 
know whether she was glad or sorry that her sus- 
pense was so nearly ended. It seemed to her that 
she was only frightened. 

“You told me that you would do as I begged,” 
she said, slowly; “I didn’t wish Sir Noel to learn it 
from us.” 

“My dear girl, I told you I wouldn’t go to Philip 


309 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


yet, that was all — I thought he would have been 
down before this. You didn’t really suppose that it 
could be allowed to continue? You will both have 
to go to Pangbourne directly — there’s no time to 
waste. If neither you nor Philip will make a move 
in the matter, somebody else has got to do it; and 
the proper person is Sir Noel.” 

“He has gone, you say?” said Helen. “When did 
he go?” 

“He was going this afternoon. No doubt he will 
come over to-morrow to lunch — unless he sleeps at 
Prince’s Gardens to-night — and this absurd affair 
will be finished. I am disappointed in Philip! 
Whatever he may have done, or you may have said, 
it was his duty to follow you and make you go back 
again. It isn’t like him to behave so foolishly.” 

Helen put her arm round her mother’s neck, and 
kissed her without speaking. For a moment, as she 
thought of what the morrow might mean, her 
wretchedness was purely compassion. Lady 
Wrensfordsley patted her hand cheerfully, encour- 
aged by the caress. Her discrimination was too 
keen for her to have felt as much confidence as she 
had affected, and now, for the first time, she be- 
lieved that her daughter was eager for a reconcilia- 
tion after all. 

But on the morrow Sir Noel did not come to 
lunch. All the morning Helen sat listening in the 
310 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


garden-chair for the sound of wheels. Had he been 
told, or not? There was humming in her ears that 
made listening an effort, and she felt a little sick. 
Over night, fear had revived, and she was haunted 
by the thought that he might have gone at once to 
his lawyers. Faith in her power of dissuasion had 
deserted her; it seemed to her even that she would 
be able to find no words at all; that he would speak, 
and she would stand there dumb, acquiescing life- 
lessly. 

During the afternoon the strain was greater. 
The glare of the day subsided, and the servant 
brought out the tea-table. Lady Wrensfordsley re- 
marked that she supposed Sir Noel had remained 
in town. Her voice jarred Helen’s every nerve — • 
she was listening now with an intensity that de- 
layed her breath. She nodded, and replied in a low 
tone. 

By six o’clock her anxiety was insupportable. 
The Court was not much more than a mile away; 
she determined to go there. 

In the consciousness of approaching certainty, 
she found the exercise a physical relief. She wished 
that she had gone earlier. Repeatedly she asked 
herself what she should say if he had come back un- 
enlightened, if he appealed to her for explication. 
She could tell him no more than she had told her 
mother, and the position would be hideous; she 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


would have to refuse to explain in the moment of 
learning that Philip — that “Maurice” — meant to go 
on robbing him! And yet, if the ordeal were in 
store her visit would only have precipitated it; it 
would be no less terrible if it came the next day. 
Far better to bear it now, she felt, and to set her 
doubts at rest. 

Although it was in the highest degree unlikely 
that he would start so late, she had kept to the car- 
riage road, and she was not afraid of hearing that 
he was out when she reached the lodge. She had 
rarely walked the length of the avenue, and 
now it seemed to her more tedious than the dis- 
tance between the houses. As she waited at the 
door she wondered with what sensations she would 
pass out of it. When it was opened she was in- 
formed that Sir Noel had returned from town so 
fatigued the previous evening that he was unable to 
receive. 

She knew that her gaze was betraying her, but it 
felt fixed — she couldn’t drop it. She stammered an 
inquiry whether he was in his room, and heard that 
he was down, but — the iteration was mechanical — 
“very fatigued, my lady.” 

She turned away dizzily. She never questioned 
whether the excuse might not be partly true; she 
did not reflect that it was natural he should feel un- 
fit to bear an immediate interview with her mother. 


312 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


and that her own visit had been unexpected; she 
only saw that, after twenty-four hours of rest, he 
had ordered the servants to deny him to her. He 
knew! he knew — and he wouldn’t see her! Panic 
engulfed her; her knees knocked together; she did 
not doubt that he would prosecute after all. In the 
avenue she had to stop; on a sudden the view had 
contracted, and the colours paled; it had changed to 
a little, dimmish picture no bigger than a window- 
pane. She had never fainted in her life, but for 
once she feared she was going to faint. 

Then the thought came that Maurice had shown 
greater fortitude — that she must be as strong as he. 
He had confessed! He had confessed without com- 
pulsion. Momentarily her terror sank, and the 
knowledge ruled supreme. What he had told her 
was true — the position was worthless to him now 
without her! The confusion passed from her mind; 
only her limbs felt very weak as she went on. She 
remembered that she might break the news to her 
mother now; she thought that she would do so in 
the morning; her mother would use her influence 
with Sir Noel! It recurred to her abruptly that the 
rector and his wife had been invited for this eve- 
ning; she had learnt the fact when she arrived; and 
she quailed at the prospect. Her husband was in 
danger of penal servitude, but she mustn’t be late! 
She forced herself to hurry, wishing that a cab 


3i3 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


would come in sight. Presently she realized that 
she was dwelling as much on the truth of his asser- 
tion to her as on the idea of his imprisonment; she 
was bewildered to perceive that amid her gusts of 
consternation she was feeling glad. 

She found Lady Wrensfordsley’s maid waiting 
for her. All but her most recent frocks — those that 
might be paid for with her mother’s money — had 
been left behind; beside herself as she was, she re- 
flected that the one laid out would embarrass the 
rector’s wife; she told the girl to choose a dress 
that was simpler. She entered the drawing-room 
in time, and smiled, and murmured urbanities, and 
praised the new almshouses during dinner, while 
her soul was on the rack. She had been trained to 
do these things. 

When she was alone again she pushed up the 
window and threw herself, dressed, upon the bed. 
She was divided between terror and a sensation 
that was indefinable. But the terror had dimin- 
ished: she could not imagine her mother yielding 
to such disgrace. Sir Noel would succumb to her 
entreaties — he must! The thought of his sorrow 
did not reach her; and yet she was a generous 
woman. All her sensibilities were absorbed by the 
man she loved. It was typical of the sexes that no 
sympathy for the other had entered her mood yet, 


3i4 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


and that it had been the adventurer, not she, who 
pitied him. 

She wondered what Maurice’s feelings were, 
inwhich room he was sitting; mentally she returned 
to the home she had left. He had confessed; he 
needn’t have done it, and he had confessed! Crav- 
ing to be proud of something, she exulted at the 
thought of that. She went over to the wardrobe, 
and took out the envelope he had directed to her, 
and sat looking at it. . . . Would he ever write 
to her? . . . What had become of him? 

For the hundredth time she reminded herself he 
had been tempted by experiences which she was 
hardly capable of conceiving. She upbraided her- 
self that she had made no allowance for that in the 
scene of his abasement; he was in torture, and she 
had trampled on him. Oh, she had been brutal! 
how could she have spoken so! She began to sob 
— horribly — with her teeth set and her nails pressed 
into her palms. 

He had been faithful to her! She no longer 
turned her eyes from the immensity of its import to 
her. She rejoiced — she gloried — to know he had 
been faithful. He had sinned, deeply, basely; a life- 
time of privation could not have exonerated him 
from the sin; but he had been faithful to her! The 
rest dwindled; he had held her, body and soul; to 
the woman who loved him everything was subordi- 


3i5 


THE WORLDLINGS. 

nate to the knowledge that she was loved. She 
realized it — she knew she had been paltering with 
the truth from the hour of his exposure. She un- 
derstood that he was just as dear to her. 

She sat at the edge of the bed, quite still. She 
did not marvel — the violence of emotion had passed 
— she did not condemn herself, she was not con- 
scious that it would embitter her future; for a min- 
ute she felt strangely peaceful, she felt happier than 
she had felt for months. 

Reason asserted itself again. She was scourged 
in recognizing that by their marriage he was guilty 
twice; like lashes it fell upon her — “twice !” “twice !” 
And then once more her mind obeyed the guidance 
of the infinite within her, never surmising where it 
was led. She recalled his face as he cried to her: 
“I struggled!” She dwelt, as he had dwelt, defence- 
less, on his belief that she was safe. Eagerness, 
love, her womanhood found a compellatory plea — 
he had been enslaved by her! 

Her thoughts roved through their life together. 
Words that had conveyed no meaning to her when 
they were spoken came back to her and spoke for 
him now. Comprehension staggered her; some- 
thing of the weight that had lain upon the man’s 
mind rolled upon her own; she could not imagine 
how he had supported it. In the complexity of her 
316 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


commiseration she vaguely resented his having 
suffered like that unknown to her. 

A passion of reproach assailed her for the indif- 
ference by which she had intensified his pain. “You 
are my all!” she shut her eyes and heard him say 
it. “Conscience had cursed him” — and she had de- 
nied him even the love he was thirsting for! He 
had submitted to her coldness, her petulance, her 
egotism without a murmur; even when he had lost 
hope he hadn’t wavered from her: “You are my 
all.” And she had said she hated him! She had 
been frightened to believe — she had still thought 
that woman was his mistress then . . . But 

she might have told him it wasn’t true before she 
said “good-by”! 

To sleep would have been impossible. She 
moved to the window and sat looking out into the 
darkness, her arms folded on the sill, her chin rest- 
ing on her arms. She had never been a religious 
woman; since she was a child she had not uttered 
a spontaneous prayer; but presently she began to 
pray. 


3 J 7 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


Sir Noel deeply regretted the instructions that he 
had given. He was too shattered as yet to break 
the news to Lady Wrensfordsley, and, thinking it 
likely she might call on him in her impatience, he 
had stated with emphasis that he was at home to 
no one. She had said that Helen knew nothing of 
her visit; that Helen might call he had not taken 
into account. She had not come to him when she 
discovered the truth, and he had no reason to look 
for her on this especial day. 

It had already occurred to him to wonder at her 
leaving her mother in ignorance, and now he 
wished testily that she had unbosomed herself to 
her directly she arrived. If she had done so he 
would have been spared the most distressing fea- 
ture of the interview he had to face. Later than 
the morrow he could not wait, and he was in no 
condition to perform a vicarious duty without re- 
senting it. 

He had returned to the Court dazed. This was 
not his son! He had been told it, and his nerves 
had assented to it, and he had never ceased to say 
318 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


it to himself; but many hours passed before his 
brain could absorb the knowledge, before he could 
compass the sense of actuality. The shock was far 
greater than if he had been suddenly despoiled of a 
well-loved son by death; the mind could have 
grasped a corporeal loss. It was the fact that the 
man he had loved was living, but a stranger, which 
evaded him constantly. Bereavement broke his 
heart — and the man was still alive. 

Even when he had spoken to Maurice of prose- 
cuting him he had known that he would not do it. 
He could meet him no more; the man must go 
away and struggle for a livelihood again; he must 
make a written statement of the facts, corroborated 
as far as possible by documents, and properly at- 
tested; he must make a statutory declaration veri- 
fying the statement, so as to prevent all difficulties 
hereafter. He must go back to the life he had left; 
but there should be no prosecution! The idea was 
repellant; Sir Noel shrank from it; at first he was 
not conscious why. 

It was by very slow degrees that recognition came 
to him; it was very gradually he awoke to the per- 
ception that his son had, in truth, been nothing to 
him but a painful memory — that the son who was 
buried less than three years since had been dead 
to him for more than twenty-five. He realized con- 
fusedly that it was “Blake” who had given him the 


3i9 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


joy of fatherhood at last, that it was “Blake” who 
had wiped out his remembrance of ingratitude and 
dishonour; he saw that he was mourning the loss of 
the living man, and not the dead one. 

But even when he saw it, the aversion from ac- 
knowledgment remained. It was not a'thingthatthe 
bitterness of injury would readily accept. He had 
heard of Helen’s coming and been chagrined, and 
dismissed the matter before the relief of surrender 
made it clear how wearily his pride had been wres- 
tling with his affection. He owned to himself that 
to refrain from prosecuting was insufficient to alle- 
viate his sorrow; that he could not endure the 
thought of the man going from him in poverty, or 
living in need. 

He recalled the sentiments with which he had 
welcomed his “son’s” return, and knew that they 
were worldly compared with the feelings of six 
months later. He recalled the wretchedness with 
which he had parted from his son, and knew that to 
part from Maurice hurt him more. The man was a 
stranger — but he was the only son he had known. 

It was finished! He would never clasp his hand 
again; never stroll beside him again and feel so 
fatuously proud to be his father. The delusion was 
over; he had now no cause for gratitude but that 
his own son — his “own” son! he whose personality 
was to-day so dim — had redeemed his youth. The 


320 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


rest had been a dream; only that was real; only that 
was left him as he woke! 

The man must go ; but there must be — something 
every year — two hundred, three hundred — to guard 
against the possibility of want. He must not go 
empty-handed; he must have a sum to begin life 
afresh with, to provide him with a chance ! 

He went to his desk and wrote a few difficult, 
formal lines; and the next afternoon his note was 
received. 

It had seemed to Maurice that remorse could ex- 
tend no further, but as he read he knew that he 
had underrated his capacity for suffering. Almost 
he regretted that he was called upon to bear the 
poignancy of forgiveness. And then there came a 
quick revulsion; the thousand pounds, the three 
hundred a year, were proffered to him — to him, 
Maurice Blake. Materially the promise was value- 
less, but morally it was worth the fortune he had re- 
nounced. It was an expression of regard conceded 
to him in his own character; it was a proof that he 
had at least filled the dead man’s place not unwor- 
thily. 

His first impulse had been to decline the offer in 
the letter of repentance that he had already written, 
but he would accept it instead — he need never ac- 
cept the money! Only a week, and Helen’s release 
would have come; why should he inflict pain by an 


321 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


unnecessary refusal? He would add to his letter an 
assurance of his gratitude; of his contrition he 
could say no more. 

He went out with the letter himself. He had 
headed the postcript “Tuesday.” Next Saturday 
he would be at Pangbourne; on the second morning 
after his arrival he was going to drown. He real- 
ized as he went along that this was the last Tues- 
day he would be alive. 

When he returned to the house he heard that 
Helen was in the drawing-room. 

She stood up as he reached the threshold, and for 
an instant they looked at each other breathlessly. 

“I have come back,” she said. “I know.” 

“You have come back?” 

“I know that you have told him; I have told my 
mother — she will see him; she will do her utmost! 
I came to tell you not to fear. You won’t be pun- 
ished — I am sure you won’t! He will let you go; 
and I will go with you.” 

“You will go with me?” He could only echo her. 

“You have confessed,” she muttered; “haven’t 
you confessed? All last night I was awake. I 
thought of you — I knew what you must feel. I 
have come back to stop with you.” 

“Sit down,” he said. “Dearest, you are trem- 
bling! Yes, I have confessed; but he has been very 
generous — nothing will be done.” 


322 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


Her eyes closed, and he saw the upheaval of her 
bosom by relief. Wide-eyed himself, he moved to- 
wards her, wondering. Her face was hidden, and 
he watched the tremor of her hands. He stood by 
her diffidently, yearning but afraid. 

“May I touch you?” he asked. 

“Oh, my own!” she cried; “I love you, I love 
you!” and held him fast in her arms. 

When she withdrew her lips he remembered he 
was going to die. He knew it was still best for her 
that he should die, although a miracle had hap- 
pened. Put he could say nothing, and it was she 
who spoke, showing him her soul until all was clear 
to his understanding, save how the glory of this 
woman’s love could have been vouchsafed to him. 

“What did he say?” 

Mechanically he gave her Sir Noel’s note. He 
was aghast in the knowledge of what her love 
meant, in realizing that she could only attain happi- 
ness in the future by passing through greater grief. 
He had thought to give her peace at once — and 
first he would intensify her pain. 

She read the note through very slowly twice. Its 
formality did not mislead her; she recognized how 
the man who was able to pardon must have suf- 
fered, and she was filled with pity and admiration 
for him. A woman less great than herself would 
have broken into wonder of his absolution, and 

3^3 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


doubled the abashment of the man who was ab- 
solved. She did not. She clasped Maurice’s hand, 
and their gaze dwelt together; that was all. 

“You will take it,” she murmured. 

He shook his head. “I can’t! I couldn’t do that, 
even if I It would be impossible!” 

“You can,” she said; “he wishes you to take it. 
He knows now, and he offers it to you!” 

He could not tell her his intention, > and there was 
no other answer. 

“There are several reasons why you must take 
it,” she went on: “because it is to you yourself he 
offers it; because he must care for you very much 
to write so, and your refusal would deepen his dis- 
tress; because I am willing to take it, and you will 
accept it for me!” 

“You don’t understand what you are saying!” 
he exclaimed. “I adore you — you are being sub- 
lime — but even if I took this money, what good 
would it be? Compared with what you are used to, 
it would be penury. I couldn’t give you a home; 
I should have nothing but the hope that, with a lit- 
tle capital, I might find the struggle easier than I 
did. I should have to leave you, anyhow. I should 
have to go abroad and work.” 

“I will go with you,” she said. 

She was pleading to him for his life, but she did 
not guess it. He kissed her, and put her from him. 


324 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


“If I could keep you for my wife, knowing you as 
I know you now/' he said, “and knowing that I did 
you no wrong by it, it would be the highest heaven 
that I can conceive. But I should be doing you a 
brutal wrong — another! Can you picture to your- 
self what it would mean with me? It would mean 
that your mother and your friends were lost to 
you — not for a few years, or many years, but for 
always; it would mean living in a little house, in a 
middle-class street, in a free-and-easy country, and 
facing a hundred economies that to you would be 
hardships. For acquaintances you would have the 
neighbors — and nothing to say to them. All day 
long while I was away you would be alone, remem- 
bering. My ceaseless aim would be to prove 
myself worthy of his goodness before he died, and 
at last the goading thought would harass you. The 
luxuries, the pleasures, the refinements you have 
been brought up to take for granted would be re- 
nounced for the companionship of a disgraced man. 
You aren’t much more than a girl, and you would 
be sacrificing the rest of your life.” 

“I will go with you,” she said. 

“Helen,” he cried, “you came to tell me you 
would stay until the worst happened. Was your 
mother willing that you should come?” 

She was silent. 

“No! And your duty is to her, darling, not to me. 


325 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


To me you have no duty. She may live for twenty, 
thirty years; and you are the only child she has; 
she is very fond of you. Do you think it would be 
right to leave her against her will, to desert her 
for a scoundrel you owe nothing to? She would 
miss you very much; as she got older she would 
miss you more. She has her amusements now, she 
has her health; by-and-by she will have fewer 
amusements; she won’t be so strong. She would 
be very lonely without you, and you would know 
it every day. When you got her letters you would 
cry — by yourself, so that you shouldn’t wound me. 
Oh, my Love, my Love! let me do what is best. Try 
to be happy without me. When you’re in grief, 
think of the future, and remind yourself that grief 
can’t last — that months of the worst misery are bet- 
ter for you than being always chained to me!” 

She looked up at him. She was very pale, but 
her mouth was firm, and resolve rejoiced in the 
splendour of her eyes. 

“I will go with you!” she said. “I do not ask my 
duty — I am going because I love you! — because I 
can’t live without you — because you shan’t live 
without me. There is no duty to keep a woman 
from the husband she loves; and if there were a 
thousand it should be the same. Your hope of 
proving yourself grateful will harass me? Me? 
Your hope will be mine, the very breath of my life! 

326 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


The house will be very little? How little you must 
think my love! Do you suppose that luxury is 
dearer to me than you? How dare you say it! I 
love my mother, but I love you more. I may grieve 
sometimes to be separated from her, but I should 
suffer worse to be away from you. And I shall not 
hide my tears from you, as you say; you shall know 
every thought and impulse that I have. I shall give 
you all, because you must give all to me. You must 
let me speak — I may never speak like it again — it 
isn’t long since I have learnt to know myself; I 
want you to know me, too! You are dearer to me 
than anything on earth; your sin has made no dif- 
ference to my love; I never knew I could love as 
you have made me. Think what you feel for me, 
and know that here in my heart, day and night, 
there is the same for you. Take me with you, and 
we will be brave together! Take what he offers, as 
you care for me! I will love you as you hoped for 
once, and more — you shall find the reality diviner 
than your dream. If you refuse you will be penni- 
less, and you could starve. I would face anything 
with you, but I know what would happen — we 
should have to take money from my mother, and 
you would loathe that. His is offered to you with- 
out thought of me — to you yourself, for your own 
welfare, because he is attached to you, because he 


327 


THE WORLDLINGS. 


wishes you to have it. For my sake, if you love 
me, if you want me, take it, and begin again!” 

“I will take it,” he answered. “God bless you, 
and help us both! . . . Will you say it — you 

have never said it yet?” 

She put her arms about his neck, and whispered, 
because she knew quite well what he meant: 

“Maurice!” she said; “Maurice!” 

“And you are sure, sure that you will never re- 
gret?” 

She drew him closer to her breast, and laughed. 


the enu 


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